


The Eyes of the Storm

by Couldbeamidget



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A doppleganger for Mycroft, And now for something completely different..., Cunnilingus, F/M, First Time Blow Jobs, First Time Sex, Greg is a hero, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, John and his psychotic break (really), John is a Bit Not Good, Lady Smallwood is a sexy beast, Lady Smallwood is not a goldfish, Late-in-the-game rimjobs, Lots of Angst, M/M, Mary stays on to help, Molly has some angst of her own, Mycroft is a good big brother, Not Canon Compliant, Sexual Confusion, Sherlock Saves The Day, Some of the missing bit get filled in, Suicidal John Watson, Supernatural Elements, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-27
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2018-09-20 06:39:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 90
Words: 91,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9479711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Couldbeamidget/pseuds/Couldbeamidget
Summary: John is left with survivor's guilt, and is doing a damn fine job of drinking himself into death. His fury over Mary's death and his perceived personal failings have John convinced he is a waste of a man. He has yet to reconcile with Sherlock, despite the detective's bravery and selflessness. Placed time wise after Culverton Smith is caught, but before his conversation with Sherlock at the end of The Lying Detective.                                                           Sherlock reads John's letter, Mary makes a surprise visit, and everything else is fine. It's all fine, actually.                                                            And there will be smut. Alot, surprisingly (most of all to the author)PS - resubmitted due to some chapter revision - no new material added.





	1. One Little Finger Can Kill a Man Dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lalarandoms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalarandoms/gifts).



> May be triggering, suicidal thoughts, depression, alcoholism. Please skip on this if you need to. It gets pretty dark. All rights to Sherlock Holmes (TV) and Sherlock Holmes stories are owned by the BBC and A.C. Doyle. I just take Sherlock out to play.
> 
> Mary is bad, Mary is good (or at least becomes a better person.
> 
> BTW, I completely overlooked the fact that Mary spent a fair bit of time traveling the globe in the fourth season. For the sake of my timeline, please pretend that her travels took about a much time as they did on the television. Thanks. *Blush of embarrassment*
> 
> *SQUEEEEEEE!* 5,000 hits. Thanks for your time and support!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not beta's or Brit-picked. Any and all mistakes are mine.

Two months, six days, and nine hours after the death of Mary

\-----------------------------

     The grey-haired man was dragged into awareness kicking and screaming. The doors were double-bolted. The windows were shuttered, the blinds pulled low. The telly hadn’t been on in over a week, and a soggy pile of rolled-up newspapers barricaded the front stairwell.

    Yet despite the widower's best efforts, the muted sounds of the world outside had nudged him into awareness. A high-pitched whine stuck in his throat. It was the first sound he had made in days.

     Life was infiltrating through his senses, forcing the widower to acknowledge the world beyond. Rolling on to his back, face having been squished into a hot corner of the sofa, John glared at the ceiling.

     Midmorning sunshine cast pale, yellow ribbons of light through the blinds. They slashed deep cuts through the stairwell and over the floor. John lifted a shaking arm and reached into the light, hand instantly criss-crossed by shadows. The sun felt warm where it touched his skin.

    John imagined the light sharp as razors, slicing him into small pieces. Finger by finger, down to the wrist, and so on. It was a comforting idea, to be taken apart. He should be left unassembled, as should any dangerous weapon.

     A car door slammed, and somebody laughed. Scrubbing his hands through greasy, lackluster hair, John exhaled a fetid-smelling, helpless cry. His hands pulled into tight fists, yanking into his hair until his scalp burned. 

     Horrific memories surfaced into his conscious mind. They arose like white-bellied fish, floating to the surface in a poisoned pool. John had faced death in Afghanistan. He had seen his share of dismembered bodies, and heard the pleas of the dying. Hadn't it been enough?

     He'd marched past decapitated dogs; fly-blown carcasses that stunk up the streets. He'd watched his own company cut down around him, a confusion of gunfire and screams for the medic.

       _That would be you, John. They'd called out for you, but you didn't save them._

      He'd once saved a child. A tiny brown girl, caught in the crossfire. Tossing his gun to his mate, the army doc hauled her out of the fray. Blood... _her_  blood, spraying about them from a hole in her pipe-cleaner leg. Bright and terrible, it stained the ground red.

     John once believed he’d been lucky in cheating death. He'd survived his own bullet wound, despite the grievous loss of blood. The injury had left him shaky, damaged and fragile. But, at least he'd walked out of the transport plane.

      _No, John, you dumb arse. You limped off the ramp with an aluminium cane._

He hadn't been carried in a black zippered bag, like so much carry-on luggage.

      _Lucky. I am so goddamn lucky._

     Poison, self-administered from a brown, tacky bottle, elbowed its way through his bloodstream. It travelled in a direct line to brain, liver and kidneys. John tasted whisky on his tongue, smelled whisky in his sweat. Much later, he caught the odor whilst taking a piss.

      Salt crusted white in the corners of each eye, leftover remnants of unshed tears. Snot clogged his nostrils, and dried vomit caked his lips. Lucky. _Lucky._ John thought he’d been lucky. Now his life seemed like some colossal joke of the gods.

     One hand, shaky and weak, untangled itself from his locks and dropped straight to the bottom of the sofa. He played Blindman’s Bluff with his fingers, hoping to strike gold. _Yes!_ His left little finger grazed a half-empty bottle of cheap whisky.

  _Hurrah! Reconnaissance mission successful._

      The fingernail made a soft, scraping noise against the label as he finagled the cold glass into the palm of his hand. John grasped as carefully at the bottle as if lifting a bomb. One tiny slip on smooth glass and he might have to get up. But no, wait, there…he had it. Mission accomplished. Good job, soldier.


	2. England's First Guardian Assassin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Doubt thou the stars are fire;  
> Doubt that the sun doth move;  
> Doubt truth to be a liar;  
> But never doubt I love.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

*Two months, six days, and nine hours, and fourteen minutes after the death of Mary*

There is pain…and it is excruciating pain. There is screaming…and that is excruciating as well. Warmth slowly ebbs into aching cold, the kind that nests in one’s bones in the winter.

And then nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

Nothing.

_And then something._

There is a place, or a space. A pale light moves through the emptiness, expanding into the distance. The woman...is sitting cross-legged in a vast ocean of dark. She is sheathed in thick woolen tights and a snug fitting jumper. Her clothes are a flat, cheerless shade of black. Her military-issue boots are all black, including the steel eyelets. A black skullcap clutches at her head, making her scalp itch.And in her hands…is a very, _very_ black gun. A gun the color of pitch. Indeed, a very desolate color, is black.


	3. No Man is an Island...Except, When He Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And his unkindness may defeat my life, But never taint my love.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Othello

     The flat was dead quiet. The stillness flowed into the empty spaces like bilge water sinks a big ship. The world’s only consulting detective lay curled up in his armchair like a limp jumbo shrimp. That was the detective, alright. An oxymoron of a man in aubergine silk.

    If one looked very closely, and listened quite hard, one could tell he was breathing. However, such one wasn’t there. Such one hadn’t been there. In most likelihood, thought Sherlock, a such very dear one would never be there again.

     He hadn’t been sleeping. Withdrawal was familiar, dare he say, an old friend? It was the thorn in his side, the pebble in his…Bruno Magli oxfords. But it was familiar. And frankly, wrestling with withdrawal once again was passing the time.

     He could hear Mrs. Hudson prattling downstairs on the phone. She had been more subdued as of late, in light of the circumstances. The car chase had been exciting, this was true. But it hadn’t fixed John, and so the adrenaline pumping through her skinny old veins had departed.

     Sherlock knew Mrs. Hudson had felt quite the hero flooring through roundabouts at 145 kph. But she was a love, and she knew of his love. A nice hot cuppa could only stretch so far. Some wounds are too great to heal.

    Sherlock breathed in, he breathed out. His Mind Palace was in need to repair, but he had not the desire to fix it. His body was transport, and his mind a machine. The genius wandered from room to room, simply observing the wreckage. Sentiment had invaded his sanctuary.

     _Sentiment._

    He wasn't a bloody miracle worker.

    Sentiment now inundated the Mind Palace like ants at a picnic. Sherlock eyed mildew in the cornices. Framed family portraits (yes, even Mycroft's), hung at cockeyed angles. A massive silvered mirror balanced coldly on one wall. Cavernous holes exposed the electrical wiring.

     Was there one hole or two?

_Pop off now, Molly. Love gets you nowhere._

     At any rate, it was a moot point now.

     Redbeard panted hotly at his heels, and he reached down to pat his old friend…but WAIT, no. He was not going there. Redbeard was not really Redbeard, so Mycroft had said. Well, screw family history.

     Secrets be damned, this was _his_ sodding Mind Palace and _his_ fucking hard drive, and _his lovely dog Redbeard._

_Look what I found, Mummy! Can I keep him?_

Sherlock dropped to his knees, burying his swollen face into burnished fur. They touched foreheads for a very long while. 

      _Good boy. Clever boy!_

     And so, Sherlock floated along, from cold sweat and shivers, to broiling and pain. He had done his damned best. He could only try to kill his self so many times before coming to the conclusion that John just didn’t care. His sacrifice was not enough to make this right. It had never been enough.

      Sherlock knew the connection was real; an invisible link between he and the good Dr. Watson. The flatmates were a magnetic and magnificent pair; they were colleagues, companions, friends. Best friends.

     The detective had thrilled in their secret language; complete conversations shared through the flick of an eye, or the lift of one shoulder. But, Sherlock had broken that link with one step off a building. John had moved on.

    He was not coming back.


	4. There is no Advantage in Caring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Under loves heavy burden do I sink.  
> \--Romeo”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

The flat was quiet. It was still, with the exception of small cracklings pops and flickering light from the fireplace. The figure, who occupied a minor position in the British government, sat pensively with one leg crossed over the other. He was more statue than man, ice-blue eyes seeing nothing and frozen in space.

     One could tell he was breathing by the flaring of his nostrils and the occasional sigh. Mycroft Holmes was lost in thought, in the recollection of a recent and painful tête-à-tête. He had parsed words with perhaps the one man in England who could strike himself dumb.

     Mycroft was worried. He was constantly worried about Sherlock. The man was a fly in his personal ointment. His little brother was a force of nature no less powerful than a cyclone.

     Mycroft eyes flashed briefly in anger and pain. Caring was never an advantage. This was evidently clear when reviewing their sibling relationship. And yet…and yet. His love for his brother ran deep in his heart. No one was infallible.

     In his role as oldest sibling, Mycroft had tried to contain him; but as yet, had failed to explain him. Much of his day as a government leader was spent in the monitoring of Sherlock...with the surreptitious aid of the British government, obviously. Doing so was an egregious use of taxpayer dollars, he was sure. Or, reminiscing on Sherlock's colorful history, perhaps not.

    Mycroft squinched his eyes closed. A piercing image of Sherlock shot into his mind's eye, and it caused his heart to skip a beat. He took a deep breath to contain his increasing panic. Sherlock's expression, the ache in his kaleidoscope eyes; Mycroft was coming undone.

    Making eye contact with Sherlock was akin to peering into the center of a storm. His eyes were hypnotic and wild, a mutable amalgamation of all the colors of the sky above.

     Sherlock's eyes would engage you, deduce and dismiss you. Once seeing was knowing, the storm raged again…and then on, and yet on, and so on.

     Sherlock surveyed his environment with all the tenderness of a raptor. Information was sustenance, his food and his drink. The man was an unsatisfied guest of a put-upon host, said host being the world and the heavens above.

     Mycroft shifted uneasily and rearranged his long legs. His little brother was an addict in more ways than one. 

     Sherlock had never moved easily in his social environment. "Obsessive Compulsive" was a forbidden term at the Holmes house. Mummy flashed fearsome eyes at young Mycroft whenever he stared pointedly at his odd little sibling.

     Mycroft excelled in the cataloging and analyzing his strangeness. "Asperger's Syndrome" was _verboten_  as well…yet frankly, Sherlock's dear Dr. Watson had picked up on his brother's eccentricities and made his own quiet deductions. Mycroft was clever that way.

    The tragedy of his younger brother's childhood was that Sherlock had grievously suffered at the hands and mouths of his peers. His difference was a disease that set him apart, and children were so very cruel. Sherlock's knife-like wit had been honed on the hides of his tormentors.

    The day Dr. John Watson had entered his life was a milestone for Sherlock. A first-time companion, a man who'd not only tolerated his brother's penchant for danger but came screaming back for more. John had been absorbed into Sherlock’s orbit.

  They were perfectly balanced binary stars.

   Mycroft had exhaled a sigh of relief for the quirk of fate that brought the men together (in all fairness, only after an extended and intensive period of examining the personal records of the entire Watson clan).

    John took it on himself to act as Sherlock's fearless defender; a pint-sized hero in a brown paper package. Even so, it was John's sanguine role as a social interpreter that paved the way for Sherlock's success.The doctor was the a human equivalent to a demilitarized zone - a buffer between Sherlock and society, the social détente for a confounded mind.

    And in strolled Moriarty. Evil Mastermind, enter stage right. Perfect psychosis in a tasteful blue suit. And the woman, and the press, and the fall…

    Sherlock preferred his doctors clean shaven, but John did not shave for Sherlock Holmes.

    Life had changed for his brother during the two years incognito. Sherlock had suffered in so many ways, and so furtively. His little brother's brash attitude after re-entering civilization hadn't fooled everyone. Sherlock Holmes was a damaged man.

      _Was it worth it, Brother Mine? Do you have doubts? You gave everything you had. It seems to me that it was not._

     Sherlock had come back with scars, crusted burns and poorly healed wounds. The light in his eyes had shone strangely with fear.

     Mycroft found himself unable to maintain eye contact with his brother. One man had fallen and another arose. The immutable fact remained that Sherlock suffered extensive and prolonged periods of torture at the hands of his enemy.

     The weeks spent in captivity were a nightmare for both Mr. Holmes, but only one bore the physical evidence.

    And for whom had he made the ultimate sacrifice? John Watson, of course. It was clear as day. Sherlock clearly felt affection for the bizarre Mrs. Hudson, strange though that may be. Detective Lestrade kept his demons at bay, so protection was the logical choice in this regard. 

      _It is John that you love, Little brother. It is he for whom you silently bear scars across your back. You are addicted to this singular man, and I have no cure for your obsession. There is no withdrawal from love._  

     Mycroft suddenly grimaced. He wanted to escape these thoughts. Caring was not at advantage. Compassion obstructed clear thinking and muddled one’s priorities.

     He was a minor official who held the weight of all England in his hands. Spending hours fussing over Sherlock was counter-intuitive. It was also quite futile.

    When it came to the Commonwealth or the fate of his brother, well…who could say, really. He’d rather not have to choose.

    Sherlock’s voice echoed loudly in his mind. “Hello, brother dear,” he had smirked from his hospital bed. His color was off and the bones in his limbs were clearly defined.

     Sherlock’s “transport” was a minor concern at the best of times, and there was unquestionably no contest here. Save John Watson, or save himself. There wasn’t a choice. There had never been a choice. His brother took his vows most seriously. 

      Sherlock never learned from his mistakes.

     “Good morning, Little Brother. I trust you are finding your present accommodations unsatisfactory. I believe it’s time to move on and depart from this place.”

     Mycroft peeled off his brown leather gloves with a flourish and gestured disparagingly about with one hand. “Smith’s favorite room…indeed.” He gave a delicate shudder and a ghastly grin.

    “Why, Mycroft, are you offering to house me, or merely discharge me upon my own recognizance?” Sherlock snarled weakly, tired of his elder brother's macabre sense of humor.

     Mycroft had always taken it upon himself to act as his minder, the meddling twat. “I am not a child, Mycroft. I can conceivably leave this abattoir independently and be well. I have run my own life for ages, you know. I manage just fine on my own.”

     “Oh, really,” Mycroft snickered. “Look at you, Brother Mine. Please, take a look. Your denial of the situation is rather alarming. You are assuredly aware that this little stunt of yours has fixed nothing, you know.”

     He sniffed loudly and switched his gloves to the other hand. Mycroft tilted his head, inadvertently exposing the bald crown of his head to the weak sunlight outside.

     “Oh, well...I must concede, Calverton Smith has been stopped. A most dreadful man I should say.” He paused, looking rather uncomfortable. Mycroft shifted his weight and gazed up at the ceiling, leaving his double chin behind.

     Sherlock groaned and turned his back to his brother. “Bugger off, Mycroft. Your appreciation of my work was clearly not my design, and frankly it will never be thus. I don’t need your approval.”

     Mycroft let his eyes sink tiredly down, scanning the wasted remains of his brother's torso. Sherlock’s words were disparaging, but his eyes had told a much different story. He'd been rejected...outcast...forsaken. Left behind.

    Beaten by the man that he loved.

    Mycroft stood poker-stiff, face lined and prematurely aged. He would have been shocked and ashamed to view himself thus; a victim of sentiment despite all pretenses.

   Swiftly...a testament to his frenetic state of mind, Sherlock twisted, quick as a snake. His brother's cheeks were hollow; dulled eyes sunken and gaping holes. Sherlock lay skeletal in the pale yellow sun.

    “I mean it, piss off.”

    “Sherlock…” Mycroft paused, for once having difficulty speaking his mind. “Sherlock, I approve of your efforts, if not your methods.” Again, he paused, seeking words that were perhaps not as blunt.

     “Brother Mine, John has not ‘been saved.’ His self-destructive behavior has continued, and in fact has increased. I can see now that your mutual affinity included methods of coping." 

     Inhaling raggedy, Mycroft pressed on. "I am so sorry, Sherlock. Your friend has pushed everyone, including his daughter, out of his life.” Mycroft swallowed, throat dry.

    Sherlock turned away, folding into a fetal position.

    “Sherlock, be reasonable. You know as well as I do once an addict has allowed his addiction free reign, there is no stopping it. Not from outside interference, at least.You know better than anyone what it’s like.”

     A noise suspiciously like a sob erupted from the bed. Mycroft flailed about, desiring to be anywhere but in this room watching his brother’s torment. This was agony.

     Abruptly, Sherlock leapt from the bed, saline drip trailing jerkily behind by the cannula taped to his hand. “Please leave now.”

    He grimaced madly, striding towards Mycroft. Sherlock abruptly grew large in his hospital johnny, bare-arsed and dangerously manic, despite his frail figure.

     Mycroft stepped back, alarmed. “All right, very well," he demurred, "no need for a tantrum. Get back in your bed before they decide to restrain you. There’s not much I can do if you’re sectioned.” He put on his gloves, sniffing, in a feeble attempt to feign irritation.

     “I bid you adieu, with the caveat, as always…I will always be here when you need me. Please, Sherlock…” Mycroft blinked sudden moisture springing from his blazing blue eyes. “Take care of yourself, if only for John’s sake. You must be there when he’s ready for help. No one else can provide what he needs.”

     Sherlock deflated, losing two stone and all his intention. “Yes, you are right. As always, Mycroft, as always.” His eyes faded from aqua to slate whilst he wavered. “But really…do piss off. Just please...leave.”


	5. Möbius Strips and Other Disasters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.  
> Albert Einstein, (attributed)  
> US (German-born) physicist (1879 - 1955)
> 
> “Why did the chicken cross the Möbius strip? To get to the other side.” – Big Bang Theory – Season 3

*Two months, eight days, and four hours after the death of Mary *

 

     It was dark. Really dark. Really…bloody…dark. John plowed his body straight into the bathroom door in a feeble attempt to use the loo. There was an ominous cramping in his abdomen, and well. He was a doctor. He knew the signs of loose stools. Or, in proper medical lingo, “The Shits.” It was good to know that his time at uni hadn’t been wasted. _Shits_. Rhymes with tits. Of which he’d been off of since God only knows.

   John backed up and tried again. His second attempt to enter the bathroom was successful. This was a mercy, as his bowels began to evacuate in most hideous but still impressive fashion. Mary wouldn’t be pleased. She frowned upon indulgence, the single exception being found in the bedroom. And he had indulged. And then some.

     John had been spinning his wheels from the moment he’d left Sherlock’s bed at that hospital. He’d wanted to vomit ever since seeing the mess Sherlock had made of himself. His friend had also indulged. His _best friend_ had indulged himself into major organ failure in a futile attempt to cross the physical and emotional barrier John had recently constructed.

     John rocked slowly on the toilet, wondering if _his_ major organs were in the process of leaking out his arse. He didn’t care. He couldn’t care. He didn’t give two shits about his life, pun intended.

     Mary had cared. His lovely but mad, lethal mercenary assassin of a wife had cared. She’d believed in a husband who didn’t exist. She had taken the time to think ahead. John had always believed himself to be a practical man. An army doctor doesn’t get far without a healthy dose of realism before heading for the surgery. Practical Mary had been facing reality. John had his bloody head up his arse.

     John had been walking on his own personal Mobius strip from hell ever since watching his wife on that cursed CD. As a practical man, he believed he’d been wronged by his friend. His honorable friend. The man who had literally and figuratively fallen off the face of the Earth for him. A man who had spent two sodding years of his own life to protect him. He'd kept walking, and walking, and walking along this path egregiously waiting for something to change. Ha. Good luck with that, you fucking twat. 

     Fuck a duck, but he wanted to die.


	6. Hitting the Carpet is Hitting John's Bottom

     John startled awake. Disoriented, he realized he was laying prone on the floor in his living room. His right cheek was smashed into crusty carpeting, and the situation lapsed past disturbing into dreamlike. Blinking several times did not change the fact that he...was on...the floor.

     A blob of yellow caught John's left eye and and he squinted to hone in on it. Oh, God. One of Rosie's pacifiers. At some point he must have stepped on it, as it was almost cracked into two. John jammed his face into the floor and sobbed.


	7. Well, get the hell on with it.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary gets a move on.

     The woman rubs her eyes and peers into the gloom. Is she in the world's...largest walk-in closet? This situation makes no sense. Grasping the weapon in one fist she clambers to her feet and spins around. What to do, what to do.

    The woman takes a tentative step forward and starts violently as a wailing cry hits her ears. She instinctively raises her gun in that direction and is surprisingly, steady on her feet.

    The woman walks in a straight line, tracking the snuffling sounds of abject distress. A screaming growl makes her pause. An uncomfortable lump in a pocket in her hip that she didn't know she had encourages her to reach down and pull it out. 

    A baby pacifier rests in her palm. A yellow one, nearly split in two. The scream fades out into a single word..."Mary!" The woman breaks into a run.


	8. Nursery Rhymes Aren't for Babies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary starts to remember

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet
> 
> My heart Is true as steel  
> \- William Shakespear, A Midsummer Night's Dream

    The space around the woman becomes brighter as she motors along. The howling cries are more discernable now. She knows that she is tracking the voice someone in the throes of incredible torment. Whether his agony is physical or mental she cannot tell.

     She feels compelled to move forward, although has no clue how to help. The cracked plastic of the pacifier is digging into the skin of her palm as she clutches it tight. She adjusts her grip around the gun in the other hand, hefting its comforting weight without any difficulty. It seems very important that she not lose her handle on either object.

     The woman’s pulse rate rises rapidly due to her exertions. An annoying rhyme echoes in the void around her, matching the beating of her heart. “Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow.”

      She lashes out nonsensically about her head with her gun hand, trying to dispel the words as if they were mosquitos. The rhyme is chanted out in a childish falsetto tone, despite being delivered by a man's voice with a slight Irish accent.

     It is a distinctly unfriendly voice, a challenging voice. The voice of a person who is trying to distract her from the current mission. “With claxon bells, and casing shells, and slaughtered folk all in a row.”

     “Shut up, shut up, shut up!” The woman grates, skidding to a halt. She spins in a circle, having lost any sense of direction. “Just close your fucking gob and leave me alone!” With a flick of a thumb the safety disengages, and the gun rings out _pop! pop! pop!_ in the air.

     “Oh, you…” The man sing-songs. “Once an assassin, always an assassin.”

     “Oh, do fuck off,” she spits out. “I’ve never hurt a soul in my….life.”

      “Golly, this is just too _delicious!_ Don’t you remember who you are? Can’t you feel the blood running down your _guilty, guilty_ hands? You are evil! You’re the devil! You’re a whore from hell all wrapped up in a tidy blonde package. You’re a killer, bitch. And you’ll never get away from it, no matter how you make those skinny legs fly.” The man giggles grotesquely. “This is just _too much_!”

     The woman squinches in her face and jams her fists into her eyes. The gun leans icy and unyielding against her forehead. Shoulders shaking, focusing on the first’s man sobbing cries, the sound seems suddenly untenable. His voice has faded and soon she will be unable to track it.

     “Fuck off!” she calls out, firing the gun in a display of defiance. “You just fuck…the hell…off.” Pausing to get her bearing, she strides forward, desperate to find that man. He sounds so helpless, so fragile, and a niggling, nagging feeling in the back of her throat is suggesting that she might possibly be responsible for causing said agony.

     “Mary, Mary, a wife contrary.” he croons. “You can’t help him now. Oh, no, that stopped being an option when you ate the bullet meant for that bastard Sherlock. Now you’ll never save poor John. You couldn’t do it, and Sherlock couldn’t do it…my dear, poor Johnnie Wonnie is _dead_ _!”_

       A blazing white light freezes her in her tracks. It is so unbearably bright that a scream rips out her throat into the ether. Pictures flash neon and gold, taking away her ability to breathe. A kind-faced man. A chubby, round baby. A shadowy figure with a limp bob waving a gun. A scarecrow man with quicksilver eyes. The man with the _quicksilver eyes_.

     Awake and aware, Mary calls “John!” and runs forth to save him.

 


	9. Mortician or a Mouse?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly quietly does what Molly always does. Molly works wonders in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,  
> Loyal and neutral, in a moment? -William Shakespeare, MacBeth
> 
> O, when she's angry, she is keen and shrewd!  
> She was a vixen when she went to school;  
> And though she be but little, she is fierce. – William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

   

     If one was being tactful when describing Miss Molly Hooper, he or she might use the term “socially awkward.” Molly traveled the corridors in the bowels of St. Bart’s in sensible shoes and frumpy knitwear.

     Generally, dead people bore no ill will against the fashion-challenged, so what did it matter what outfit she sported? Besides, the odors of the mortuary tended to cling to her person, a distasteful if unavoidable fact. It just wasn’t practical to dress for the dead.

     Irregardless, her job had its perks. She couldn’t save a life, but she could help bring the dead justice if they had been robbed of it. There was a quiet satisfaction in that.

     Molly knew she was awkward, and clumsy, and foolish. She could try and could try, but could never fit in. Molly had a mind of a genius and the manner of a misfit. Seek out a boyfriend? Attract a psychotic. Dress in her best? Trip on the landing.

     Desire was not the same as ability. Wanting was not the same as _being able to achieve._ If this were so, Sherlock Holmes would lie naked on the futon, peeling her grapes and rubbing the corns on her feet. _Hah._

      There were so many things Molly _just couldn’t do_. In the previous lifetime, Before Rosie ( _B.E.)_ she had indulged in private, self-pitying behavior. Molly mentally catalogued her failings, one by one, as she glared at the clock stealing time from her life. Clutching a tumbler of cheap Cabernet whilst she cuddled her cat, she mentally ticked them off.

_Number one: Conversationally speaking, I have more meaningful interactions with cadavers than with co-workers._

_Number two: I have a desperate desire to get into the pants of Detective Sherlock Homes._

_Number Three: Sherlock is embarrassingly aware of this pathetic attraction of mine, and bloody Just. Doesn’t. Care._

_Number Four: The last man I dated use the term “meat dagger” in front of my colleagues. And Sherlock. In front of my colleagues whilst speaking to Sherlock ._

_And so on…and so on…_

     Sherlock. He was  _so_  beautiful in his Belstaff coat, with those curly, dark locks and irrepressible swagger. The man’s cheekbones alone were to die for. And the gifted regard in those bright rainbow eyes…that keen, probing stare that shot straight to her heart and ricocheted down to her knickers.

     He read her like a book. To her eternal damnation, she was not on his bestseller list. Yet, in spite of her failings, her had sought her out at his most desperate time. It was Molly he had sought in his hour of need. It was she he had turned to. There was a quiet satisfaction in that.

 

*Two months, eight days, four hours, and sixteen minutes after the death of Mary*

 

     Molly's eyes reflected the green of the microwave lighting as she stood in the dark of the kitchen. Snuggled into her knobby left shoulder was a round-faced infant with indigo eyes.

     Fine tendrils of silky hair capped her head and brushed dimpled, crimson cheeks. Despite her sandy blonde hair, the baby's eyes were rimmed with kohl black lashes; Ladies and Gentlemen, Britain's youngest top model had just debuted.

     The infant burbled and gummed Molly's printed pajamas. Although no one was witnessing them in this pre-dawn hour, it obvious that they were a devoted pair.

     Molly had been a saving grace for this diminutive girl. She provided unwavering love to this armful of chub in the chaos of John’s self-destruction. Rosie had been christened with her mother’s  _true_ name, symbolic of hope and redemption.

     It could be said that Mary’s death had been an inevitable consequence of her career. (At least, Mycroft Holmes had spoken so, despite the lack of anyone ever inquiring of his opinion in the first place).

     Nevertheless, Rosie’s emergence into her parents' lives had been a roadblock against reality. Her innocence and beauty had blinded them to the fact that _Mary had been an assassin._ Binkies and bottles do not mix with murder, and new life can’t replace old lives stolen.

     Well…Molly just damn didn’t care. Mary had chosen to kill, and John had chosen to drink. The technician’s slight figure swayed as she waited for Rosie’s formula to warm, triggering a new burst of snuggling. Mouth curving gently, head tilted down, Molly had snuggled right back.

     She had been overjoyed with John and Mary's joy, if a tiny bit envious at the wedding. The love in John's eyes for Mary… and Mary’s eyes answering his back…But. But no. _The two elder Watsons had dug their own graves_ , Molly thought. A slightly morbid idea from a mortuary technician. _Not even funny. Not amusing at all._ But neither were their actions, which were threatening the well-being of this little lamb.

     In her heart of hearts, Molly wished John's healing with all her heart and soul. To be stripped so early of his marital bliss...there wasn't even a name for a crime like this. And Sherlock. The detective had torn his body apart in his desperate attempt to reach his John.

     If Molly let her thoughts meander back to that day, that horrible day Sherlock's body had collapsed, well, she would be reaching for the damned Cabernet.

     She wanted to vomit upon examining Sherlock's blown veins. She'd blanched at his stammering speech and blank stare whilst back in the ambulance, his bones poking through his shirt. The detective's body had been so close to irretrievable damage.  _God help us all._

    Molly loved Sherlock. Sherlock loved John. Sherlock loved  _Mary and John._

    Mary and John loved each other, and a child had been born of that love.

    But Mary had died. Mary had died. Mary had died  _saving Sherlock._  

    Mary knew _Sherlock_ _loved John._

    _WHERE WAS THAT DAMNED CABERNET?_

    Here Molly was, holding the fruition of this love. 100% proof Love in a diaper. Alone and unloved, holding Love.

     Molly began to cry.


	10. I am Woman, Hear Me Roar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary pokes John in his, well, bollocks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you not know I am a woman? when I think, I must speak.  
> ― William Shakespeare, As You Like It

   John had been crying so long his nose was completely clogged. He sprawled, a pickled  Vetruvian Man, somberly contemplating the ceiling fan overhead. It rotated lazily on its axis. He rolled his head in unison with the unit, recollecting Sherlock grousing “’Round and ‘round the garden, like a teddy bear.” Twat... deleting the Solar System. A withered smile stretched his cracked lips.

    My God, they had just met at that point. A million years and ten thousand miles had been traveled in a short five years. A feeble giggle slipped from his lips. Bloody Sherlock. Fucking Sherlock. God, he hated him. Fuck, he missed him. _Jesus, he loved him._

   Christ, what a cock-up.

   John was lonely. The death of his wife had been out of his hands. Mary had been a force of nature since they day they had met. She had mostly blown soft and gentle, warmth in her eyes and love in her heart.

     But when Mary's ire was raised, God help the bloke in her path. The woman was a bloody natural disaster. She had taken the bullet. She had rescued his friend. He needed to understood why. _Mary, I miss you! Please, tell me what to do. I'm so lost in this hole I have dug._ John fisted Rosie’s binkie to his chest in anguish.

     John imagined laying lethargic on the floor until he sank into it, expiring from grief. He envisioned rotting into the carpet, puddling in a putrid, manky mess on the concrete slab. He’d certainly imbibed enough liquid to constitute at least one decent puddle.

       _Listen, you git!_ The widower's head flew up as he eyeballed the room with suspicion. Nothing. Dust motes drifted in the hazy afternoon light. _Huh._ John had hallucinated for the first time in his life after his wife had been shot.

     Powerless to concede her loss, the widower had sustained the illusion of Mary. He’d spoken with her, slept with her. Christ, they’d even fought... typical of the woman he'd married. As a doctor, John had seen his share of queer behaviors, but his particular psychosis had taken the cake.

     _Get up, John! Get off of your arse and go out!_

  Scrambling to his feet, John stumbled out the door.


	11. What John was Unable to Say

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John writes a letter to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This above all: to thine own self be true,  
> And it must follow, as the night the day,  
> Thou canst not then be false to any man.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet
> 
> “God hath given you one face, and you make yourself another.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet
> 
> This chapter has gone through about ten re-writes and I still can't find John's voice. How do I capture his style of talking when his cleverest dialogue was delivered via body language?

    Sherlock rose from the leather chair like a specter. He had lain prone for so long that the leather had stuck to his cheeks and his chin. Shaking the blood back into his left foot, the detective hobbled into the kitchen.

     He had the kettle boiling within minutes. Despite all appearances, Sherlock was not helpless in the kitchen. He had just preferred to be served. It was comforting to be cared for.

     Dunking his teabag in a cracked porcelain mug, Sherlock filled the kitchen with an aroma he had always affiliated his flatmate. Eau de John Watson. A fine blending of jam, worn leather oxfords, and Twining’s Everyday tea - with a splash of minor irritation to add depth.

     Sherlock was tempted to dig out a jar of jam from the refrigerator. There might just be one behind the sheep’s bladders. He’d look into it later. For now, he stuck his patrician’s nose in the cup and inhaled deeply. The detective was profoundly aware that this was the closest he was ever going to get to his friend in this lifetime.

     The moisture from the steam cooled his cheeks as he puttered back into the sitting room. It gave Sherlock a slight chill; the fire had finally burned down into ash.

     He glowered peevishly into the fireplace. Well, he knew ash. The detective took a small sip of the scorching brew as he meandered over to the mantle. Starting up a new fire seemed too daunting of a task. Brewing a cup of tea had nearly exhausted his energy reserves. It had been a long time since Sherlock had last eaten. He had no companion to remind him to eat.

     Sherlock placed the cup lightly on the mantle not far from old Billy. His eyes lit upon a folded white paper tucked behind the skull in a place of safekeeping. The detective’s fingers grazed over the paper, eliciting a quiet exhalation.

     He had memorized the entire content of John’s letter; he could thank his cursed eidetic memory for that. John’s scribbled message was never far from his thoughts.

     Sherlock drew the letter gently into his long fingers, holding the paper in his palm. It was an unnecessary exercise in grief to examine the contents. Nevertheless, Sherlock retrieved his tea and surveyed John’s chair from the sofa.

     Mycroft was ever reminding his little brother to examine all sides of a conundrum. Perhaps he would be pleased upon perusing hidden security coverage. Sherlock had moved off his chair.

      John’s chair remained neglected and dusty. The Union Jack pillow was the solitary occupant now. This certainty challenged Sherlock in uncomfortable ways. His efforts to clutch onto sanity during the two-month stint as a meth addict were tenuous as it was. Peace of mind had never been his for the taking. Sentiment was akin to distraction; distraction was akin to the disruption of a logical mind.

    Sherlock found that his incredible skills as a puzzle-solver were less than useful when it came to his heart. His confusion was weighty and worrisome. Despite all his swagger, the detective was cognizant of his shortfalls.

     Heartbreak and anguish were incomprehensible. The detective had no facility to escape this malaise. Sherlock’s lanky figure curled into the sofa. He angled his torso flush to the back rest, bony but pliant limbs vanishing under the canopy of his dressing down. The tea cup was settled softly to the floor.

     Pressing the paper to his dry and split lips, Sherlock shuttered his eyes. These written words were shards of glass knifed into his chest. The man lost the ability to breathe.

     Taking a moment for courage, Sherlock unfolded the letter. Each phrase was excruciating in its simplicity and clarity of meaning. John had always been a man of plain speech. The soldier from another lifetime had not minced words now.

 

          Sherlock,   

I am only going to say this once, so I hope my message is clear. Stay out of my life if you care for me at all.

I would be a fool to think I was clever enough to ever see through your lies. You have a gift for prevarication that goes far beyond pathological. But despite the facts clear before me, I have always given you my unequivocal trust. I know I am not your equal in intelligence, but I did believe that I was your friend. I never know, with you.

Do you know how many times I sat, gun in my mouth, after you faked your death? I changed once you'd died. Nothing seemed worth fighting for, including myself.

     By the year before you left me, my feelings for you had changed from friendship into something else. Maybe I didn't understand why, even acknowledge it at the time. At any rate, it didn't seem worth trying to understand my feelings anyway, considering the bloody "It's all about the work" policy you have. Do you even have sexual desires? I could never figure that out.

    Christ, Sherlock, you must have known how I felt, as brilliant as you are. Even if you didn't see it, It was so bloody obvious to everyone else that they would have clued you in. So you knew. Didn't you?

    I am not gay, but I would have been in your bed with one word from your lips. That was how you affected me. I was your flatmate and friend, but I wanted to give you more. I would have followed you anywhere, but it was obvious that you didn't want me that way. Frankly speaking, I was incredibly embarrassed by my feelings. I knew it would put you off if I ever confessed. I was in a no-win situation, and it changed everything I ever believed about myself.

     Still, despite the risk of losing everything, if you asked, I would have been honest. I knew you didn’t want me that way. You never needed anyone that way. I was your fool more than your friend.

  After your clever stunt, Mycroft filled me in on the snipers. He also sent some seriously disturbing information regarding your experience in Serbia once you’d come back. I felt like a complete arse for how I treated you, and apologies only stretch so far. I guess I got my temper from my dad, which I know is no excuse. You didn't talk about it, so I just made that time go away. 

    Anyway, the past is over. When you "died", I managed to carry on and keep at it. After I met Mary, I saw a chance to live a normal life. Mary saw who I was, and didn't find me lacking. Mary always wanted me back. God, I am such an idiot. I believed in Mary. I believed she could never lie. I suppose I should make my time with her go away as well. 

You lied to me, and then Mary lied to me. Why can't I lie to myself?

You've a great gift in acting omniscient. I have never figured out if you are a narcissist or just very, very clever. You made a vow I so desperately wanted to believe in. I had to believe in your word, but I should have remembered. I am only a fool.

       If you are able to feel anything for me, than respect me and leave me alone.                       JOHN H. WATSON

            

     Sherlock sat still on the sofa while his mind fled the confines of the flat.


	12. Mycroft Begins to Melt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Iceman begins the thaw, and Love turns on the heat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “The lady doth protest too much, methinks.” ( or Mycroft, take your pick) ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet 
> 
> "If you're building your own legacy, it can't be under an umbrella." - Ester Dean

   Mycroft Holmes swiveled in the padded chair behind his massive desk, pondering on the next move. Not a political move, no. He faced this decision with more trepidation and fear than he'd experienced during the last Korean elections. 

   Granted, other more pressing circumstances, had been a source of heartbreak and stress, especially those of a  _familial_ nature. But this…this was navigating in shark-infested waters, and he'd not dipped toes in the ocean for a very, very long time. Might it be time for a swim?

   Mycroft set his stormy blue eyes on the obligatory, pocket-sized planner resting in the palm of one hand. The  _t_ _ap tap...tap tap_ of his fingers on the black leather cover mimicked the beat of his heart. The British Government cleared its tight throat, and slipped out a white business card.

   The careful storage of this card was a somewhat superfluous action. The  very personal phone number inked atop its surface had been etched into memory.  _Lady Smallwood. Codename of Love._ He touched the card to his pink, smooth lips. A head official of the British government. _And one very hot tamale to boot._

Mycroft reached into the depths of his tasteful silk waistcoat, and slowly drew out his phone.


	13. Love...Exciting and New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Lady accepts a proposal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I would not wish any companion in the world but you” Shakespeare, The Tempest – Act 3, Scene 1

     Lady Smallwood, known Alicia Amorie to her closest companions, lazed on the cherry red chaise in her sun room. The glass enclosure was tucked into one corner at the back of her palatial home. Security risk aside, it was her preferred dwelling when service to the Commonwealth wasn’t required. The brash yellow of the afternoon sun had given way to a rosier hue, cross-hatched by pussy willow bushes and the spikier rhododendrons ringing the edges of the property.

     The petite, delicate blonde was a study in contradictions. Alicia Amorie was a soldier of the mind, using her wits and a well-turned phrase as her implements of war. She guided her British compatriots in the pursuit of prosperity, safety, and advancement in the 21st century. The Lady was small in stature, but prodigious in statesmanship. She looked like a librarian. She verbally sparred like a legionnaire.

     A refined selection of cheeses and fruit were arranged on Arris Wedgewood china. The diminutive, gold-leaved platter gleamed in the twilight. The light was quietly mimicked by the flickering glow of Lady Smallwood’s cigarette. She rarely indulged in smoking. The last days of late had been trying in the extreme.

     Alicia Amorie may excel in navigating perilous situations, but that didn’t mean she was impervious to stress. One last, satisfying draw from the fag and she crushed out the flame on the tile below. Ordinarily a fastidious homeowner, she felt entitled to be careless for once.

     The shrill ring of her private phone provoked a frisson of nerves. Was it conceivable that _he_ was ringing her now? Extending the privilege of her personal number to Mycroft had been a delicious play of derring-do for the widow. Lady Smallwood preferred dignity over despoilment.

 Although, _Mycroft_ , a man of refinement and precise moral standards, well…who knew if the rumors were true? A snide smile slid across her thin lips. _Ahem._ Enough fruitless conjecture. The Lady swiped up her phone and said, “Hello?”

               

************

     Much later in the evening, the petite figure regaled in the embrace of her lover. Their entwined limbs gleamed slippery sleek in the dark amber light of the fire. Beads of sweat pearled in the dimples of her glorious backside.

     The Lady Alicia Amorie Smallwood, protector of the Commonwealth, sprawled with wanton abandon across her lover’s lap. He raised up the bottle of Romanée Conti, dribbling its contents down the curve of her flanks.

     “Eee!” She squealed with mock horror, arching her back whilst flailing her legs. “Mycroft Holmes! I demand that you clean me at once! I’ll get sticky!”

Her lover curled inward, tongue slipping out, and eagerly bent down to comply.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone know where the inspiration for the chapter title comes from? Hint. You have to be old to know. Like, your parents had a rotary phone. : )


	14. 'Round and Round the Garden...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John walks about the city. He goes looking for trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I will more willingly part withal: except my life, except my life, except my life.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

 Two months, eight days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes after the death of Mary.

   John recovered his wits with a yelp of agony, In the mindless dash along the streets of his neighbourhood, he had the misfortune of jamming his little left toe into a sewer grate.

     Indigo eyes flashed bright in the night, along with both rows of teeth as he howled bloody murder.  _Bloody HELL!_ His fucking toe felt like it had been torn from his foot. This seemed akin to what a banana must experience in the clutches of an orangutan.

     He tumbled ass over tea kettle into the filthy asphalt of the street, skinning both knees bloody raw.  _Bloody, sodding, fucking HELL!_

     The widower collapsed into himself and rested his sweaty brow on his thighs. He endeavored to regroup. John was a victim of the mixed directives driving his body. It was simultaneously attempting to suck huge gulps of air into his lungs whilst expelling the contents of his stomach.

     His body compromised, spewing a rancid combination of stomach acid and alcohol between fits of coughing and gasping.Eventually, the paroxysms stopped. Chills ran up the length of his spine to his clenched shoulders.  _Just...breathe. Breathe. Breathe._

John peered up and surveyed the surroundings. He did not know where he was. The landscape was littered with blocks of flats and small shops. The intense LED streetlights limned the edges of buildings, leaving behind cavernous strips of black shadow to be navigated.

     Feeling grimy and gross, John scrubbed his face with the sleeve of his jumper. His head swam. He did not understand anything.

     He stood up stiffly and took stock. His grubby brown slipper was clinging to the right foot. His left foot was bare and injured. Some minor hemorrhaging had occurred at the tips of his toes. The copper tang of fresh blood wafted in the air, and John swallowed queasily.

     Upon further inspection, it was apparent that two toe nails had been ripped off. Sheer lunacy. He was still clothed in the tatty oatmeal jumper and grubby jeans that he had put...when? Time was amorphous since begging off the last four shifts at the surgery. 

     It was cold. Freezing cold. Arctic cold.  _Global warming, my arse._ John crossed his arms, rubbing his upper arms briskly. Hobbling up to the road sign at the neared street corner, his mouth dropped open in horror.

     He was three miles away from his flat. He was three minutes away from 221B Baker St. One, how had he not recognized his old haunts, two how had he gotten so far away from home, and three, why had he ended up here? It was a bizarre situation.

     His memory had been altered by the incongruous mixing of anguish and alcohol. The man was all turned around. He must have had a black-out from drinking. As a physician, this was a possibility he was desperate to deny.

    John stood at the corner. Hypothermia was rearing its ugly head, not that he could rouse any concern about the fact. But, something had to be done. John discovered a comprehensive lack of money or wallet in his back pockets.

     His temperature dropped to absolute zero as frigid fingers scrabbled around, seeking a monetary solution. _Christ._ In desperation John thrust his hands in the front pockets of his jeans. He felt an object down deep in the right one. He pulled out… _Rosie’s binkie._ Awareness came crashing back as bleeding knees kissed the cold concrete.

 *****

 _Ten minutes earlier_ …than two months, eight days, four hours, and twenty-two minutes after the death of Mary.

     Sherlock cradled the violin like a child in his arms. Music was a source of solace for this man with no turn-off switch. Playing violin was a method of externalizing his cerebral activity, especially when composing new pieces. Intricate fingering, crazy-strange keys, 7/8th metre, those were his food and drink when in pain.

     It was a closely guarded secret, known by few in this world, that Sherlock was no sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise. Sherlock’s well of emotion mirrored the length of his legs.

     He was currently lost in the depths of his sentiment. The genius was in over his head and in definite danger of drowning. This was the mark of a Danger Night.

    The detective stepped up to his window at the front of the flat. The property below was unmoving and silent. Frost glittered on windows of buildings. It was a disheartening view. Fathomless eyes glazed over as he unconsciously started to rock.

     Sherlock avoiding rocking his body in front of an audience, especially John. It reeked of pathology and mental disorders. However, Sherlock found it quite soothing.

     A sorrowful melody leaked from his throat as he hummed an unwitting dirge for Mary. They had shared a strange communion in their worship of the little man, John. The nature of their love was specific and true, although, only one person had been courageous enough to express it.

     Furtive movement in the street below caught his attention. The compact figure of a man was scuttling, cowered and miserable, along the edge of the kerb. There was no mystery in the identity of the figure. _This was John._ He bent forward, forehead pressed to the glass, breath fogging his view whilst he tracked his friend’s progress. John was hurt.                                                                                        

     John was trailing black patches of…blood...yes, blood, from his left foot. _John had no coat, and only one slipper._  Sherlock recognized a Danger Night when he saw one. He laid the violin down swiftly but gently on the desk. Swiping his phone from the couch, he jammed shoes on his feet. As he flew down the stairwell, Sherlock took enough time to yank on the Belstaff; then, he took after his friend.


	15. Like a Teddy Bear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Big Brother Mycroft lends a hand.

     Mycroft Holmes was blissfully sleeping off the malaise one experiences after a spectacular bonking. Lady Smallwood snuggled under his arm, a blonde spill of hair blanketing his torso. She looked a 1940's film star.

     She let out a delicate snore as he adjusted his arm, grasping his phone when it chimed. The leaders of the British government might be indisposed, but the phones stayed on and charged 24/7.                

     Mycroft squinted down at the text. He grimaced as he saw it was from his brother. He was relieved to see that Sherlock was initiating communication, it was just that the timing...well, was a mite awkward.

     The statesman finagled the phone closer to his face and opened the text up. Five seconds later he unceremoniously tipped his lover from his chest as he rose and moved from the bed. "What ever was that about?" Lady Smallwood breathed out in surprise as she pushed loose strands of hair out of her eyes. "What's wrong?"                                                                                                                                                                

    "Sherlock's doctor companion has put himself into a position of peril. The man slipped off the rails after his wife was killed." Mycroft winced in empathy as he tightened his belt.

    Mycroft held John Watson in high esteem. He'd been a true friend of his brother's - and quite possibly, he'd been his only friend. Sherlock Holmes was a great solver of puzzles, but a poor choice of companion. Watson was the first adult friend his brother had ever managed to cultivate and keep.                                                                                            

   "How so?" She queried, slipping into a white silky dressing gown and beaded slippers. "In the course of solving a crime?"                                                                                          

    "No, unfortunately. Nothing so mundane as that. John..." his voice grew soft, "John has started drinking and, well. Let us just say that he has not yet stopped. Sherlock says he spied John a few minutes ago walking on the street of his flat with no coat or shoes. He believes John is drunk. It appears John has, in addition, injured his foot. The severity of which was not detailed. Sherlock was not very specific."

     Mycroft dressed rapidly and slipped on his shoes. His fingers rapidly pulled a number up as he strode from the bedroom. He scowled impatiently as he walked to the front door, the phone pressed against his ear. Mycroft put his game face on.                                                                                                                      

     Lady Smallwood unbolted the doors to the front porch, and then swiftly turned to the side. "What are you planning to do?"                                                                                                    

      "I am putting a team of men out to track his movements, and then intervene if danger arises. I have advised Sherlock not to approach John personally. It would be inadvisable to attempt communication with the poor man in this state." Mycroft stilled for a long sigh.

     "I believe my little brother is out of his league on this one. Sherlock is...invested in John Watson as a companion in a way I have never observed with him before. I am concerned for both of their sakes." Mycroft bent down to peck a swift kiss on her lips.

     He paused, reconsidered, and then laid in for a much deeper kiss. "As ever, my dearest Lady Smallwood, the presence of you company has been divine. Shall I look forward to a future date with you," he  flushed delicately, "perhaps at my domicile?"                                                                                                                                                      Alicia Amorie placed a gentle palm on his cheek. "I look forward to it. Good luck, Mycroft. Go save Sherlock's friend."                                                      

     Mycroft slipped out the door and into the icy black night.                                                                          


	16. A Heart Full of Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson, he's in danger...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, King Lear

    Attending to the health and well-being of the people at the surgery took tact and extraordinary amounts of patience. Normally as patient as Job, John’s temper had escalated exponentially with every miserable day. It was to everyone’s profit (with the exception of his daughter’s) to bypass his work at the surgery whilst in this funk.

     John had taken the Hippocratic Oath. His pledge to uphold it had been the moral standard for his entire life, army career not with-standing. 

                                  ** _i can't do this anymore_**

   John was cognizant of the burgeoning, raging fury in his heart. He envisioned going totally bat-shit crazy whilst examining some snotty-nosed brat or whingeing old fart. Going mental, smacking them about the head and shoulders with his stethoscope, jamming tongue depressors where the sun never shined...

_Put **that** in your blog, boyo._

It was apparent he needed to leave the work to the professionals.

_this is ridiculous_

  The dilemma with this was that work had always defined John as man. He was a healer, a soldier, a “catcher-of-bad-guys"...and now a husband and father. Without these designations, John was…nothing.

     There were no parameters in which to maintain an identity. Sherlock’s motto that _The Work Comes First_ (John imagined the words tattooed over Sherlock’s left breast, in Copperplate Gothic Bold font) had always received John’s tacit endorsement. The Work provided a moral compass. It was the one idea that was never disputed. But now…there was nothing.

                                              ** _I have pushed everyone I have ever loved away from me including my baby girl_**

                                                                           _baby girl_

  He was indebted to Molly for essentially adopting his infant girl whilst he'd emotionally self-immolated. John had taken Molly at her word when she had whispered, “If there’s _anything_ I can do…” She’d held his teary gaze with her own chocolate-brown doe eyes, narrow hands clasped to her breast. Rosie was safe at Molly’s. Rosie was free of his bitterness. Rosie was clear of his rage.

                                            _baby girl precious girl_

_I don’t care I don’t care I can’t care anymore_

_**MARY** _

 John was still completely inebriated. His BAC was still staggeringly high, despite his epic bout of vomiting. He stumbled from street to street, his only intention to gain as much distance between himself and Baker St. before collapsing.

     The widower’s thoughts became tangled and circular…and horribly suicidal.Blood continued to drip from his toes as they scraped the rough concrete below. John's decreasing core temperature was altering his mindset.

_baby girl precious girl_

_I don’t care I don’t care   I just can’t Mary. I cheated on Mary I cheated on **Mary Mary Mary** I let you down Mary _

_you thought I was some guy that I was never was I’m not that guy the man that you thought I was I’m not that guy_

_I let Sherlock down._

     John’s extremities felt painfully hot from exposure. His fingers and toes were tingling, clumsy, and hurt to move. The little man was disoriented. This bewildering landscape of buildings, and trees, and cars, and things was so strange.

     It dawned on John that he was probably dreaming. It was dark, and so lonely, and so agonizingly cold that this must be a nightmare. Somewhere along the line, his one flimsy slipper had disappeared. _Damn._ He'd needed that.

_I                 loved him_

_I loved him God how I loved him **SHERLOCK**_

_S **uch a coward**    Sherlock you died for me I almost let you die again I left you alone _

_I'm not that guy.                                                                                                                              I hit him. I hit him hard, Greg.                                                                                                                     Sherlock so beautiful beautiful mind and body and eyes..._

_I left him to die in the clutches of that maniac          Smith                                                                                                                                                I wanted to undress him and make him mine                                                                                           I would have worshipped his body..._

_I’m no good I’m no good And Rosie God Rosie…her mother_

_such a coward **not a man**  _

_**JUST A WASTE OF SPACE**_

_I am letting my daughter down my **only child** my child my baby girl I will bring you down_

  _Why can't I feel my feet?_

 


	17. Confound It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock covertly protects John from himself. Now, who will protect Sherlock from Mary?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The attempt and not the deed,  
> Confounds us. –William Shakespeare, MacBeth

 

    Sherlock jogged softly along Johns trail. It was child’s play. The splotches of bloody toe prints mimicked a series of morbid Rorschach prints. They stood black as ink amidst the detritus of white road markings.

     The sleuth pulled his coat tight around his torso with trepidation. He was freezing his arse. It was well below zero degrees Celsius. Hypothermia, and conceivably frostbite, was inevitable if John didn't get back inside.

     Sherlock was unnerved without understanding. What could have driven John, Steady-On John, into such a state? Anxiety clutched at his heart strings. Ignorance was NOT bloody bliss    

     Sherlock chanced a peek from his vantage point. John was stumbling, one ankle rolling and knees folding down. He immediately executed a spectacular face plant, smacking full-force on his chest.

 _Bloody...damn it!_  Sherlock gritted his teeth and gave a full-body cringe. He spared a panicky glance at his phone. Where was his pompous big brother now? Sherlock's overriding desire to leap out of hiding was tempered by the image of John, ocean eyes dull and depressed at the hospital. It was clear John wanted him out of the picture.

   Sherlock’s eyes snapped back up when he heard his name. John keened in abject misery, grinding his face into the concrete.

     “Sherlock, I’m sorry! My God… oh my God… _he was_ _my friend_.” John wailed out, voice ebbing down to a whisper. “Damn it! Damn me to hell. I am so sorry, my love!"                                                                                                          Sherlock startled at John's term of endearment. He edged one foot closer, but then stiffened as if slapped. A silent black car had navigated the corner and pulled to John's side. Should he go? Should he stay?

     Mycroft, damn that omniscient arse hole, had a distinct advantage in deducing human behavior. Sherlock quivered in a frenzy of indecision.

      _Sherlock!_

_?!?_

   That was Mary. He'd know her voice anywhere. The detective wobbled and spun; 360 degrees of confused consultant. Long, agile fingers knifed into his coiled mass of hair as the long woolen coat followed suit. Sherlock’s eyes blazed fiery green in the streetlights, intensely lunatic.

     He was conscious of car doors snapping open, the sound cutting through low, careful voices. Sherlock did not understand anything. His fingers yanked out his curls.

     Slamming both index fingers into his ear canals, Sherlock jiggled them harshly. He huffed out a breath and regrouped, snapping his cuffs. Sherlock honed back in on John.

    “Shut up, Mary!” he hissed, then recoiled. He sounded like a loony. On the other hand...hallucination or not, John's wife was being excessively irritating. “Get out of my head. I am busy!"

 _Well, it worked with The Woman._ Sherlock thought with alarm.  _I am arguing with an aural hallucination...probably. Most likely. Any other supposition would be illogical._

 _Must_ _remember NOT to inform Mycroft._

   He no longer felt the cold.

    _Sherlock! Stop being Sherlock and save him!_

 "I don't have time for a breakdown at present," he temporized, straightening the collar of the Belstaff. "Not today...but pencil me in for next week."

     The detective revisited the effects long-term drug use might incur on the grey matter of certain deductive geniuses. The damage may be considerably more extensive than he'd calculated.

      The mishmash of methamphetamine, cocaine, and morphine he'd injected had conceivably caused permanent brain damage. The evidence of such lay before him.

_Well, all in a day's work._

     Sherlock inched away from the edge and back, behind the shelter of a bin. He finagled the angle to maximize his view whilst remaining unseen. One of Moriarty's most lethal bombs lay posed on the precipice of his heart. If John was seriously injured... _BOOM!_

      _You are the only one who can!_

    "Yes...yes, Mary. I followed your original plan." Sherlock murmured sotto voce. He took stock of the figures navigating the pavement surrounding his friend, watching their body language for information regarding John's state. "Perhaps, it is time to re-examine your methodology before..."

_Get off your arse, you social nitwit and attend to the love of our lives!_

Sherlock's torso arched back in a spasm of panic.  _JEEEsus...I am **still** off my tits on drugs! _ His legs leapt forward without mindful consent. It was an imperative.

    **_Must. Save. John..._**

 _a_ _nd remember: never mince words around an assassin._

__


	18. Not A Sociopath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade looks in a different direction for love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …a sweet-face man; a proper man, as one shall see in a summer's day. – Shakespeare, A Midnight Summer’s Dream

 

     Greg Lestrade, A.K.A. Graham, Geoff, Gary, or Gavin (in no particular order), moodily picked at a bloody, infected hangnail as he nursed a pint. He was indifferent of his lager, which had grown increasingly tepid. He also ignored the sausage fest sandwiched in at the bar, as it let out a collective roar of indignation. The chronic, tinny play-by play of the local football matches normally garnered the detective’s attention. Lestrade, was an avid fan of Wellington United. At the moment, he couldn't be arsed to care.

     He'd been gutted by the catastrophic series of events after John Watson’s wife had been killed. Mary Morstan. A.K.A. “Incredibly Frightening Assassin Wife.” His arse was planted at the pub, but _Ladies and Gentlemen_ , _Lestrade’s brain cells have left the building._ The dead spider plant in the smeary window was more animated than his sorry carcass.

     The brutal shooting at the aquarium ran a continual loop on his mental film projector. He'd pinpointed the exact moment that Sherlock had signed his own death warrant. The detective had sent a barrage of scorching personal observations about the traitorous secretary. Sherlock, without pausing for breath (and despite Mary's whispered warning to SHUT THE HELL UP, SHERLOCK) cornered the fox in her den. John was the only man Greg had ever seen successfully pull the plug on one of Sherlock's high-speed rants, and John had not yet arrived.

     _And then the shit really hits the fan. What a mess. Sherlock sticking crap in his veins...for Christ's sake! Sherlock off his tits on drugs, John out of the picture, Mary murdered, that creepy murdering rat-bastard Culverton Smith...if the drugs weren't enough to drive Sherlock to the loony bin, the rest of it would have anyway!_ Greg leaned back as the barmaid wiped up his table. She shot a meaningful glance at his lukewarm lager, and he nodded assent. It was warm as piss. He ordered another. 

    Greg scrubbed his itchy three-day stubble.  _This situation is a complete cock-up. Thank God for Molly_. He didn't know how John would have coped if having to cope with an infant, daughter of not.  _Molly. No one ever takes her seriously. Always hiding in the mortuary in her little white coat - but she's brilliant. The one person Sherlock confides in during his 'hiatus', besides Mycroft. Always the last person anyone notices. Maybe it was that, but I don't think so. Sherlock knew what he was doing that day. He knew who he could trust._ He eagerly grabbed his fresh pint and took a deep swig.  _Ah, the bees' knees' that is._

 _And there she sits, stuck in her apartment with Mary's baby. She took to that baby like a house afire. Molly._ Greg saw the woman in his mind's eye. Intense brown eyes, cute tiny nose...and who knew what was under that lab coat. This led to more speculation. _That knob Tom is an idiot. He doesn't know what he's got._ Greg huffed out a laugh. ' _Meat dagger'. What a wanker._ Speculation turned to appreciation.  _All alone, no one to talk to, besides Mrs. Hudson. But that's not stimulating enough for a woman like her._   _She's not a talker, but she's no dummy._ Greg yanked out his wallet and threw a few quid on the table. As he got to his feet and arched his achy lower back, Anderson appeared in his line of sight. Anderson's beady little eyes landed on Lestrade. He headed on a collision course with his old colleague, smile on his face.

     "Hey, coming or going?" Anderson in his nasal voice. He was looking better these day, not so haunted. Not so guilty. Not so much like a complete nutjob.

     "Yeah," Greg said with a feigned air of regret. "My arse is flat from sitting here all day. I better make something of myself than a a bench warmer." Anderson looked regretful. Life had been lonely since he'd been sacked. 

     "So, where are you headed?" Anderson inquired.

      Always sticking his nose in it. Where he was going was no sodding business of Anderson's. Any thoughts he had on Molly Hooper were going to stay that way...as thoughts. Anderson never shut his gob if he had something juicy to tell.

     "I have to see a man about a dog." Lestrade gave a crooked grin. "And that's all you need to know."

     "Ahhh...interesting. Well, uh, have  good time, then." Anderson flapped a hand at the table. "Guess I'll just warm your stool for you until you get back." The stool jerked across the floor as the man overshot it. The stool let out an obnoxious shriek. Greg turned his back as he slipped on his jacket, rolling his eyes.

     Glancing back, he mouthed "Cheers." and headed for the door. The detective strode out with a lift in his step that Anderson had never noticed before. "A dog, indeed." Anderson demurred, and raised his hand for a pint.


	19. Design Intervention

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets into more trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Madness in great ones must not unwatched go.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet

     The first sound John heard, apart from his own pathetic sniveling, triggered a sense of vague irritation…and recognition. It was the solid “clump- **clump** ” of an overpriced luxury sedan's doors being slammed shut by minions. _Mycroft's minions?_

    The noise sounded a warning bell in the back of John’s mind. Based on numerous run-ins with Mycroft, he associated posh sedans with the government. Posh, shiny, black sedans. Vehicles identical to the one currently nosed up to the kerb. It filled him with dread.

     Strategically low voices sounded nearby, too subtle for John to interpret. He came back to himself in alarm. Epically pissed, heaped into a pile of bloody body parts; a counterfeit tramp on a lunatic binge.

     Tasteful Italian oxfords stepped into view. The widower had belly-flopped hard on his stomach. A revolting canvas of blood, tears, and snot coated the pavement under his face. His cheeks must be painted bright red.

    Manicured hands reached down close, and John flinched away. “Piss off!” he growled. “Go away!” The last thing he wanted was to stare into the odious face of Mycroft Holmes. _Mycroft._ That fucking pretentious, overbearing, and autocratic older brother of Sherlock.

   "John? Dr. John Watson?" said the man with the manicure, smiling with diplomatic aplomb.  _Pretentious twat._ John performed a half-arsed assessment of his current situation. Three men altogether leaned over him. Mycroft's goons. Goon One held an orange emergency blanket, and a poncy leather doctor’s bag. "We've come to take you home."

    John scooted sideways and batted at One’s tailored wool trousers. "Get away, Goon! Leave me alone! I know who you are. Fucking Mycroft and his spooks!"

     John sat up, assessing the damage, a drunken attempt at triage. Bleeding foot, frozen fingers, bruised and scraped forehead and chin. Even his elbows were achy.

     “Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes sent us here to…” Goon Two took a hesitant breath, “to aid you in...” He lost his train of thought as John rocked to one hip and made a heroic effort to gain his footing.

     “Here. Sir – wait.” 

  John somehow managed to get on all fours. He promptly threw up on the fine Italian leather of Goon Three. Three shrieked like a schoolgirl and rocketed back.

    John smirked through the ooze bubbling down his chin. _Retreat! Full Company Retreat!_   

     He wiped the ooze, chin on shoulder, and recouped. “I told you to…leave me alone.” He hacked twice, spit, and got to one foot. “Bring that back to Mycroft. A little present for the meddling bastard.”

    John's witty repartee would have been much more effective if he’d been delivering it sans slur. To Mycroft’s minions, John said something to the effect of “Bing dash battoo Mi-cough. A rittle preeshhhh…*hack*…bashahd!”

    Increasingly claustrophobic, ringed by three underpaid, overdressed spooks, John felt under attack. His many years as a doctor-slash-soldier had provided John with a plethora of evasive maneuvers when faced with danger.

    John  _felt_ he was in the face of danger. Danger in the guise of “aid”, delivered with smarmy smiles and soothing speech. Danger in the form of white nurses’ uniforms and Thorazine tablets. Possibly, white straitjackets as well. This all reeked of losing control.

     Life had been solidly outside of John’s control for the last two months. He wasn’t conceding any more control now, regardless of these people's intentions. The soldier-slash-doctor-slash-burgeoning alcoholic managed to lurch to his feet.

     Thrusting out, he rammed stiffened fingers into Two’s larynx. As Two bent over with a strangled yelp, John threw a remarkably accurate left hook at One’s temple.

     One fell flat to the pavement, inadvertently tangling himself in the orange shock blanket. Three was the only agent fortunate enough to be outside of John’s range. Still coated in spew, the behemoth regained his composure and strong-armed John into submission.

     John, in an impressive display of histrionics, went berserk. He screamed in panic, voice fearsome in outraged terror. It was inconceivable that such a small human being could launch sumu a vicious vocal assault. Nevertheless...

    John’s face was tomato-red, camouflaging the blood crusted upon it. Two hauled up One, and within twenty seconds had disabled John’s attempts at escape. The widower's shrieks measurably increased in intensity and volume.

A wraith-like shadow swooped into the fray.

Chaos ensued.

*********************************************

Hours later, under the incredulous death glare of Mycroft Holmes, three battered and bloody men endeavored to file a report.


	20. Bottoming Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "If music be the food of love, play on." - William Shakespeare

_thud **Thud**...thud **Thud** …thud **Thud** …_

     Eyes fluttering, John made his way back to consciousness. Blood shot up to his brain like a bullet, a lethal hit in liquid form. _This world is too light._ The room was too bright, and death rays in the guise of light-emitting diodes melted his retinas. He was dying. He must be dying. No one who hurt like this could possibly recover and live.

     “UUUUhh..gnnn.” The groan ebbed out of windburned and bloody chapped lips. John draped an elbow over his eyes and groaned again.

      “John?” He heard a tentative whisper, a familiar voice. It comforted him, although he couldn’t say why.

      “Mmm?” John answered from under the shelter of his arm. He curled onto his left, assuming a fetal position. “Uhm.” _Inside? Have I gotten back inside? Or am I just dead from exposure?_

      “John?” A hesitation. “Are…do you need anything?” The reassuring voice murmured. This voice was the single soft thing in existence. He was so relieved it was there. It shielded John from his sorrow. He had been so alone, so desperately lonely. So very, very alone.

       “Just…talk. Just talk to me.” John breathed. “Keep me from being alone.” Silence. A large palm, attached to long, limber fingers, stroked the side of his head.

       “I’m here, John. I’m here for you. I’ll stay until you tell me to go.” The hand was warm and so soft. It toyed with the limp fringe of hair near his temple. It fondled the wisps on his neck.

       “Tell me a story. Tell me of something new.” John felt a hot splash of tears flood over the bridge of his nose and on down, over his cheek to his ear. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

         He croaked this last bit, biting down on his lip. “Please.”

         “No.” The baroque baritone kept tempo with the hand, luring John into sleep.


	21. JWN - The John Watson Network

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Mary, Mary, where’re you going to?” – The Monkees
> 
> Oh...the angst. If this comes off as too maudlin and melodramatic, please forgive me. This is what happens when I work the night shift.  
> The smut is coming, I promise.

     Mary is in situ in a doctor’s waiting room. It is a strange place, not the surgery where she works with John. This office is peculiar, shadowy and empty of the interminable swarm of coughing, sneezing people.

     She wiggles experimentally into her chair, infinitely posher than the usual plastic fare. A square, squashy object is nestled in her lap. It is precious. She must keep it out of harm’s way.

     Upon examination, Mary absorbs the fact that it is the Union Jack pillow from Baker St. So is the chair. John’s squashy arm chair - in this foreign and unnerving clinic. In fact, it’s the only seating available. One squashy pillow.  One squashy chair. The rest of the room is empty.

     She assesses. The overwhelming evidence points toward a lucid dream. _I’m in bed, being roasted alive by my furnace of a spouse. I’ve been driven into this bizarre dream by his ridiculous metabolism. It only makes sense._

     To start with…well, this was just odd. A massive telly on casters positioned itself in front of the nurse’s desk. Most clinics provided a manky collection of moth-eaten, outdated newspapers and children’s books for entertainment purposes. Besides…well.

_Sod it all, what the ever-loving fuck is going on here? I know I’m not sleeping. This isn’t a dream._

_I_ am _more awake than I have ever been in my life._

    However, the hard-earned skills developed through her profession as a mercenary are useless in present circumstances. The situation is too nebulous. There is no data on which to plan a course of action.

_I might as well hang on to John's pillow and wait. It is a waiting room, after all. And it’s fuck-all preferable to that emptiness, that space that I was lost in before I found the clinic._

Frowning, Mary shakes her head. Maybe a little telly?

     A gray, institutional end table shimmers into existence to her left with a *pop*. It's like a magic trick. A single object graces the scratched Formica top. A flipper. _Well, hell._      

     Mary swipes it up and points at the telly. The telly flickers with static and an ear-splitting “ _KSHHHHH_ …”

 _Jesus! Volume!_ Mary lowers the volume and waits. And waits. The strobe-light static is disorientating. Mary groans. Well, it is a bloody waiting room. She points the flipper at the telly in disgust, ready to turn it off. The screen flickers, and flashes.

     John, lovely John, emerges on-screen…red-faced and sobbing. For the second time in so many minutes, Mary remembers it all.

     John is sobbing. Screaming. Calling her name. He’s what...face-down on the carpet? Mary’s stomach plummets to her toes and she unconsciously reaches toward the telly with a hand.

     John is disheveled and so thin. He's simply swimming in his jumper and jeans. Her army-neat husband is surrounded by squalor. Bottles and bottles, some tipped on their side. Some stuck to the floor.

_He's let a few beers fall down on the sofa._

_All this glass! He’s made a prison of glass and locked himself up inside of it. My God, my love, how have you come to this?_

     She has to make him get up. She needs to free him from this nightmare. “John, get up.” Mary moans low in her throat. “Please, darling, get off the floor.” Nothing. _Oh my God, my God, is this Hell? I'm in Hell?_ She stands up, Union Jack smashed to her chest. “Listen, you git!”

    Mary keens in panic, deafening in desperation. John body jolts as if he's being electrified. His lovely head angles up off the floor, awake and alert. Now, she's got a chance.

    Mary scrambles closer, face plastered to screen. “Get up, John! Get off your arse and go out!”

    John jerks up and stumbles to standing, unsteady and leaning to his right. Careening about their sitting room in a drunken stupor, anguish carving deep fissures around his mouth, he is the spitting image of Harry.

     Mary sucks in a breath. Her heart is breaking, shredding into pieces. _Okay. Alright. He heard me. I can help him. I will save him._

     John throws himself forward and fumbles with the bolt. He springs out the front door in a panic. Mary hears him howling in pain, quite possibly calling her name. She's unsure, however. He's gotten too far away too quickly.

     The telly pops and spits malevolently. Furious flickers of static temporarily blind Mary, and she howls impotently at the screen. “John! John!” By the time the malignant black blobs clear from her eyes, the situation is clear. She has lost sight of her John.


	22. Crap Telly

     Mary spins in a tight circle, frustration merging into fury. _This sodding place_. “John!” she wails, fighting the temptation to hurl the flipper at the luminescent screen and smash it's liquid-crystal display in a thousand shards of glass and circuitry.

    “Goddamn it!”  _Stop panicking. Rely on what you know. Act according to that knowledge. Stage a plan of attack._

    This mantra is a little pet phrase. These words have kept her alive with her wits about her in far more harrowing and lethal circumstances than these. Well, more lethal, maybe; never this heartbreaking.

     “Okay. Okay." Mary flails a hand over her head as if she is shooing away mosquitoes.

       _Nice. Screaming at the telly, you’ve really lost the plot. How professional._  She exhales a warm, harsh puff of air. _You’ve turned nutty as Sherlock!_   _Sherlock_. **_Sherlock!_ ** Where had he been whilst John was drinking himself into the carpet? Unwittingly, Mary backs up and half-lands, half-falls into John’s chair.

_I…for the sake of John, I've got to face facts. This isn’t a dream. I’ve not gone mad. I'm not locked away in some loony bin…no. I'm **dead**. I’m dead and John is suffering. This is all because of me. _

     Mary sobs with abandon, ribbons of tears streaking down her pale cheeks. She clutches the Union Jack pillow, as if by squeezing the stuffing out of it she can somehow rectify all of her sins. Mary weeps and she wails, crying until hollow and dry and still. She may be Estonian by birth, but her character is all British "stiff upper lip". 

     Mary sits up, unconsciously swiping her face free of wet tears. _Okay. Right. Stage a plan of attack._

She aims the flipper at the telly, and switches to another channel. Clearing her throat, and feeling slightly like an idiot, Mary whispers, "Sherlock. I want to see _Sherlock_.” The screen flashes a spastic combination of colors and shape. It flickers violently. Nothing.

    Mary clears her clogged throat and tries again, a little louder this time. Nothing. Mary screams up at the ceiling, whilst stomping a foot. "Goddamn it!"  _Okay...okay. Think._

    She inhales a great mouthful of air and bawls out "Listen, you fuckers, put Consulting Detective William Sherlock Scott Holmes on the screen now, alright...or I am going to break out of here and kick some Poufter Angel Ass!" Mary waves her gun about for emphasis, just in case someone thinks she is kidding. 

    The telly goes dead black for a split second, and then two tiny blobs of color emerge from the center, yellowish-green swirls mixing into an infinity of blues. And in one of the blobs, an infinitesimal speckle of brown catches her eye. _Eyes. Sherlock’s eyes._ Mary leans forward and starts to speak in an intense, extremely loud voice.


	23. Ye Gods and Little Fishes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly counts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I'm a king bee  
> Buzzing around your hive  
> Well I'm a king bee, baby  
> Buzzing around your hive  
> Yeah I can make honey baby  
> Let me come inside  
> \- The Rolling Stones, “I’m a King Bee” (1964)

*Two months, nine days, and twelve hours after the death of Mary*

     Molly shook her mousy brown hair under the tepid water. The shower spit water halfheartedly from the rusty shower head, as if providing any more water pressure was just asking too much.

     Molly pictured infinitesimal hydroxide ions circulating around her wrinkled toes, soon to be borne down through the decaying metal of the drain. Soap bubbles skimmed down her torso along with the residue of the rubbish shampoo from Tesco. Water-logged streamers of hair wrapped her aching shoulders and tired back. She felt like a drowned rat.

     Molly was wrung-out as a result of two domestics (leading to three murders: one cheating wife, one skanky ‘ho, and one fat-arsed husband who wouldn’t even lift his pecker - he was that lazy), and two multiple car pile-ups.

     One very long day at St. Bart’s, after a sleepless night with Rosie, and she was ready to collapse. Molly mentally thanked whatever gods happened to be listening for blessed Mrs. Hudson taking Rosie for a whole twenty-four hours. The pathologist had a newfound sense of awe and respect for every single mother toiling away on the planet.

     The low-volume toilet, shower with its cracked and ancient fixtures, and yellowed vanity had always been a source of embarrassment for Molly. With the last two months, however, her estimation of this tiny bathroom had been greatly elevated.

    The room was now sauna, sanctuary, and spa. Who knew that the solution for premature wrinkles and hypertension could be created in less than five square metres of space? Hang a telly and pop a fridge under the sink and she may never it leave again.

     The tiny woman exited the shower stall, along with a bilious cloud of water vapor and the questionable scent labelled “Jasmine Spice”. The fragrance from the shampoo smelled suspiciously akin to the industrial-strength deodorizer found in the hospital loos. Well, underpaid and overworked mortuary technicians had to make do.

     Mostly.

     Molly had taken the time to shave her legs, and other unmentionable places, for the first time in weeks. She slathered Indian Night Jasmine body cream, found on-sale for 8 £. She’d been unable to say no to the extravagance.

     Sometimes, pampering herself with posh, fragrant creams was a psychological imperative. Just ask anyone whose job description included sharing personal breathing space with the (mostly) recently deceased. So, rubbish shampoo, incredible cream.

     After a thorough moisturizing, Molly proceeded to pluck her brows, complete a speedy-yet-proficient pedicure, and blow-dry her hair. Last but not least, she combed a dollop of Moroccan Argan Oil, 100% Natural, Organic, Cold-Pressed, and Triple-Extra-Virgin into her locks.

    Four ounces of shine and manageability for four days-worth of groceries. It was quite possibly worth it. Maybe. As a finishing touch, Molly dabbed OPI Babydoll Pink on her toe nails. It was amazing the deals one found on EBay.

     Pouring a generous volume of a questionable pinot noir in a coffee cup, Molly strolled into her equally minuscule sitting room/dining area. She switched on the telly and threw herself into the faded red sofa.

     Poppy, her British Short Hair, and the original spoiled baby of Molly’s, leapt into her lap. The cat took a whiff of her proffered fingers and flinched back in disgust.

     Shooting an unamused glance at her human, Poppy showed her personal opinion of overpriced lotions by wrinkling his velveteen nose. "Indian Night Jasmine", indeed. And humans thought used  _litter_ smelled foul!

     Flipping on the telly, Molly was pleased to see that London had been crime-free since she’d arrived home that evening. Perhaps the workload would decrease. Ohh...to sleep in tomorrow. Molly grinned wryly at the suggestion. Someone  _always_ was dying, usually in a horrific and damaging way.

      _Oh, well. At least I'm never short for work._

     Poppy flinched again, ears twitching in irritated fury as Molly’s phone set up a frantic buzzing on the side table. She lunged for it, hoping against hope that it wasn’t Mrs. Hudson pleading off babysitting due to her hip.

 _Pleeeaaaaassse, just one night._ _One night to myself. Well, perhaps not_. It was Greg Lestrade ringing. _And I just got out of the shower!_ “Hello?” she breathed, preemptively grimacing at the threat of being called back to work.

     “Molly, hey there.” He cleared his throat harshly and gave a slight laugh. “No worries, I’m not calling you back to St. Bart’s.”

     “Oh, well, hi Greg. What can I do for you then?” Molly waggled her eyebrows at Poppy. This was a first. _Oh, God, had something happened to Sherlock?_

     “Yeah, and nothing’s wrong with Sherlock. He’s fine. No drugs.” Greg cleared his throat again, aware of Molly's adulation. "Heh. I knew you'd be worried. No...I'm calling for...a different reason." 

     “Are you feeling poorly, Greg? You sound like you’ve come down with a cold.” _Stay away from me, then. The last thing I need is a sick baby._

     “Ha! No. No, I’m fine. Just, em, well look. With things going on like they have, I know that a lot has been put on your shoulders. You’ve got the baby, and John, is…well, John isn’t at his best right now.” Greg paused, looking out at the night sky for inspiration. “I’m just calling to see how you are doing with all this.”

     Poppy bumped her boxy head into Molly thigh, as if to assure Molly that yes, she was indeed awake and not dreaming. “Wha…uh, well, I’m fine. I’m good, fine, wonderful, actually. Well, not wonderful, what with Mary’s murder and all, but…I’m…fine.”

_Ye Gods and little fishes, I sound like a lunatic._

    “Thank you for asking, Greg. Very kind. I have the night off, actually." She sighed joyfully. "No work, no Rosie. Free as a bird…just little old me. And my cat, Poppy.” Molly dropped her head in her lap. Sherlock had called it, after all.

  _Do stop talking, conversation is really not your area._

    “Well, good! Great, then! Would you care to go out, maybe for a late dinner, perhaps?” Greg sounded hopeful.

    Molly surreptitiously wiped cracker crumbs from her lips. “I’ve eaten, actually, It’s a lovely suggestion, though.”

    She jumped up from the sofa, depositing Poppy on the floor. “Would you like to come over for a drink, eh, a glass of wine, maybe?”

    With a haughty flick of her tail, Poppy stalked off. Molly frantically swept off the sofa with her hand, and checked her breath for any offensive cheese odor. She’d have to change out of her dressing gown. And her bunny slippers!

     “That’d be great, just great. I’ll see you soon, then.” Greg hung up and walked to his car with a touch of swagger. Things were looking up.


	24. The Mojo Effect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally, I am brave enough to write smut. Readers be kind. Molly and Greg have it off, get it on, make the beast with two backs, and shag each other silly. It's about time they got some.

*Two months, nine days, and sixteen hours after the death of Mary*

     Greg broke several moving violations in his haste to arrive at Molly Hooper’s. Simultaneously slamming the car into park and turning off the engine, Greg took a deep breath and swiveled the rear-view mirror down. He eye-balled his reflection.

 _Not bad for an old git._  The detective had a hunch that life might be taking a turn for the better. Greg slicked a hand over stray spikes of hair and checked his teeth.  _Clean. I'm in business._

 _And speaking of_ clean...he popped the glove box and rummaged around until he found what he wanted. A small box of condoms lay in his hand. One could dream.

     Molly broke the speed of light wiping the entire surface area of her flat with disinfectant wipes. Poppy made a dash for freedom in the fear that he, too, may be subject to the frenzy of cleaning.

    Three lit cinnamon-scented candles disguised the scent of fresh cat pee. Molly washed her hands and threw on a set of her better jeans. She placed confidence in the knowledge that things could only go up.

 

    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

*Two months, nine days, and nineteen hours after the death of Mary*

     Molly sleepily snuggled into the warmth of Greg’s bare body. The detective’s burly chest was blanketed in a fine layer of silvery hair. He fairly glowed in the low candle light.

     Her brown, no, silken chestnut locks, shimmered with golden highlights. Several strands had adhered to the sweat on her cheek. Greg tenderly tucked the offending stray hairs behind one delicate, elfin ear.

    Molly was lovely. Her face rose up to his for a delicious, wet kiss. The couple touched foreheads with affection, and a susurrus of bed sheets filled the room.

     The night had begun fairly awkwardly. Molly was abashed by her offering of wine, quietly dithering over the fact that it was basically one degree above plonk.

    Molly dispensed her offering in the privacy of the kitchen.

    Greg ignored that it came from a box.

    Molly served it in a chipped wine glass.

    Greg pretended to enjoy it.

    Both secretly hated it, but chugged it unison; acknowledging it as a godsend of liquid courage.

    Greg’s confidence withered as they sunk into her lumpy sofa and made small talk. Mary’s true nature and subsequent death, _and_ John’s subsequent campaign of self-annihilation, _and_ Sherlock’s lapse into drug use in a well-planned but fruitless attempt to save his best friend, _and_ Molly’s sudden introduction to the drawbacks of being one's godmother, well. These topics did not enhance one’s libido. Life had not been looking up as of late.

     Lonely people can be desperate people. With a combined effort of herculean proportions, the couple moved past it. Molly’s eyes shone as she recounted her affinity for child-rearing; tears welling in her lower lids. Greg wanted to brush them away.

 _My God in Heaven, this_   _woman has incredible eyes._  Doe eyes. Bambi eyes. The eyes of a muse. Gorgeous, limpid pools of luscious burnt umber that a man risked getting lost in. A second, and then third glass of poxy plonk was inhaled. Molly shifted closer. He stroked her hair.

     Greg got his mojo workin’.

     Molly reached behind to grasp Greg’s head. She twisted her fingers into his coarse, silvered hair and yanked his hot mouth to her own. The respite of post-coital snuggling was over.

     Greg let out an “oomph!” of pleased surprise and wrapped his hands around her sleek torso. Molly’s skin was _so soft,_ smooth as silk. And she smelled delicious. Wafts of exotic fragrance surrounded her extraordinary body, from pink-tipped toes to smooth shoulders and back.

     Their tongues met and tangled, and then Molly jerked his head back to expose his neck. She grazed her kitten teeth down its length and his body twitched as if she was mouthing his cock. In public, Molly was a shrinking violet; in private she was a libidinous femme du monde.

     Greg groaned hoarsely with desire. He sported an awe-inspiring hard-on; the second such event in the evening. His pecker hadn’t been this energetic since his time in uni. He was seriously considering snapping a photo for posterity.

     Their bodies undulated against each other on her lumpy mattress, her legs opening up to encapsulate his thighs. _Goddamn!_ The detective’s hips involuntarily bucked against the heat of her sex, and Molly wrapped her nimble ankles around the small of his back and hung on for dear life.

     “Wait! Molly, hang on a sec, love.” Greg flailed blindly on the top of the bedside table for the box of condoms, setting the lampshade a-kilter and frightening the cat.

     “Noooo…” Molly sobbed, “Don’t stop moving."  _Oh, my God, Greg!_ A veritable wail emanated from her kiss-swollen lips as his cock rubbed against just the right spot. “Keep going, shit…you feel so good!” _Holy…fucking…shitting…God!_  

     Molly had never conceived that such mind-bending pleasure was possible. Her lower half was on fire, still aglow from Greg’s gift of the most exquisite orgasm ever received in her thirty-four years. _I'm going to have to send him a thank-you note. Maybe some flowers, and a fruit basket._

     Now, the slippery wet between her thighs sent Molly mad. She must have Greg’s phenomenal cock in her this very instant, or she’d expire in a puddle of liquid goo. Who knew, who knew, who knew! Greg was a sexual god.

    The detective snorted, pleased. He dipped in to suck on her rosy right nipple and she howled. His mouth pulled harder, tongue rasping at the sensitive nub. Molly arched into him, relying on body language to communicate her desperation.

    Now, Greg released the first nipple and honed in on the second. His tongue dallied lazily over the sensitive tip and Molly screeched "Greg!" as she cinched his round arse cheeks in her vise-like fingers. "Fuck...me...now!" She punctuated the statement by thrusting herself forward against him with each word.

    _Christ, this woman!_  Greg snickered softly into her hair. "Easy...easy, love. Let me take care of you. I'll give you everything you need...in time." Greg's eyes flashed wicked and black.

     The detective eased her clutching hands away from his hips and slithered due south. His tongue left a meandering trail of shine across her undulating abdomen.

     Molly sucked in a mouthful of air as his tongue segued into her navel. "Shhh....Molly, shhhh."       

     Greg's nose nuzzled deep into the smooth, shockingly bare skin at the nexus of her thighs. The taste of her wet heat on his lips almost triggered him into an spontaneous orgasm. He clamped down hard at the base of his cock, using mind-over-matter to wrestle his body into submission.  _Not yet._

Greg spread Molly's legs wide open, and systematically drove her insane.


	25. Love, Actually

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Basically, a continuation of the last chapter, since my fellow writer and incredible horndog of a co-worker thought I left the readers hanging (ha ha).
> 
> Also, I am now completely sick, so this may end up being dull as dirt. I don't know. This feels a little forced. I also feel I've made Molly into some kind of skank. I did always wonder what was behind that demure demeanor of hers that could prompt her to smack Sherlock so hard. Any thoughts?

     Molly wailed in ecstasy after the third most incredible orgasm of her life. _We should have done this years ago! And I thought **Sherlock** was the genius?!_   _Greg's incredible!_ She struggles to slow down her breathing, close to hyperventilating from the intensity of it all. All this time, Greg right there in front of her. 

     Greg shot Molly a proud and rather pleased look, a smirk lifting one corner of his slick and newly chapped mouth. He grabbed her hips and flipped her over, lifting her onto all fours. “Say I can, Molly. Say I can fuck you now!” The detective growled insensibly, nipping at her bum. "Say you're _mine_!"

     Greg crawled behind her, licking wetly up to the dimples gracing her arse. Silver hair spiraled over his flushed cheeks, framing his lunatic leer. The detective's black eyes flashed like mica in the pale morning sun, which peeked through the lackluster vinyl blinds.

     Bright light striped his face and chest, highlighting the rough layer of stubble wrapped around Greg's lower jaw and neck.

     “God, yes. Greg. Yes!” Molly’s face and torso were tinted an appealing, rosy pink, and her hair wrapped around her smooth shoulders in a silken, sable cape.

     She positioned herself arse up, elbows braced on the bed. She was completely debauched, wanton, desperate. Greg had never seen a woman so gloriously fetching in his forty-four years of life.  _Christ in heaven, why haven't we done this before?_

     Grabbing the third condom of the night, Greg slicked himself up and rammed into Molly. They moved like a well-oiled machine.

     The two were so tuned into each other’s body language, along with the host of sighs, moans, and gasps forced from their lips, that their delicious, spiraling orgasms were delivered in harmony.  It was a spectacular finale to a transformative adventure.

     The sun rose in the incandescent blue sky. After a shared shower and hasty breakfast, Greg snogged Molly for an additional five golden minutes.

      Scampering to his car, he made a heroic attempt to wipe the shit-eating grin off of his face.  _Sherlock’s going to take one bloody look at me and know I got laid. No…no, he’ll deduce with that brilliant brain of his that I‘m falling in love with, whilst being shagged bloody senseless by, Molly Hooper._

     Greg took a gander at his reflection, making his own personal deduction. He didn’t give two shits if Sherlock sussed this out or not. He was ecstatic, sexually sated, and believing, for the first time in a very long time, that he might not end up alone.

    Back at the flat, Molly sought to recoup her ordinary, self-effacing manner. It was an ambitious endeavor, considering that she’d been shagged bloody senseless by Lestrade, of all people.

    Molly and Greg were friends as well as colleagues. Respect for each other, and acceptance of Sherlock's genius had united them. Without realizing it, Molly's feelings for the detective had changed into something more.

     With an apologetic grin to Poppy, Molly reached down to scratch behind his ears. He flicked them at her irritably, as if to say, "No touchee, human. I know where those hands have been!" 

     Sherlock’s landlady pulled up in her sleek, scarlet sports car, sedately maneuvering parallel the to the kerb. Mrs. Hudson, by and large a speed demon from the Fourth Circle of Hell, was taking no chances.

     Rosie was extraordinary, precious, unique. She was Mary’s legacy in this world, and Mrs. Hudson was going to make _bloody damn sure_ that this baby girl, held in her frail but competent hands, remained untouched by the unsavory vagaries of life.

     Clean nappies and baby in her pram, she headed up to Molly's front door. Within two minutes, Molly was spilling her guts. One just couldn't put it past the widow of a drug lord.

 

    


	26. The Folly of Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “How far that little candle throws its beams! So shines a good deed in a naughty world.” William Shakespeare
> 
> “If after every tempest come such calms,  
> May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Othello

    The room was peaceful, aside from the intermittent “ _thump- **crack**_ ” of heavy winds rattling loose panes of glass in the windows. Subdued light from the fireplace delineated the two men nesting on the sofa.

     Sherlock’s spidery limbs formed a protective web around the thin frame of his friend. Their silent communion fomented a truce, a respite from the incredible tension.

    It took every ounce of self-control not to throw his head back and scream at the heavens. His reckless, selfish, stupid and sodding senseless actions. Sherlock wanted to rip out his hair, scratch out his freakish eyes, cut out his traitorous tongue. Anything, anything to undo his folly and give Mary back to John.

     Mary had died as a result of his hubris at the aquarium. The challenge of the gun, his insatiable thirst to show off… _I have to be sooo fucking clever_. The thrill of deduction was too tempting.

     Power had coursed from his brain through his groin to his toes. _Intellectual crack, the ultimate addiction_. Electrified, and in the thrall of observation, he’d been unable to stop.

 _No, that’s a lie. You didn’t want to stop_. _You chose not to stop_.

     Sherlock stroked John’s slack jaw, bristling with stubble and tacky from vomit. _Why, Mary? Why did you choose to protect me? I have so little value. I am a self-indulgent man living a_   _f_ _oolish life_.

     Tears ran heedless down his face, soaking into his collar. _Why give up yours to save mine? So I could watch John suffer? You were so much better than that. I do not understand. If that was really you talking…tell me why._

     Sherlock paused, waiting. Nothing, of course. He’d been hallucinating. Sighing, Sherlock immersed himself in the moment. He bent close to his friend and breathed in John’s essence. It took some deducing, but the doctor’s homey scent mingled among the more noxious odors of alcohol and vomit. It was akin to ambrosia.

    The detective imperceptibly cringed. This was not acceptable. _Friends don’t sniff friends to get off_. He felt like a criminal for taking advantage of John in this state. A single tear dropped, landing with a plop in John’s hair.

      _Ah…sentiment_.

     He viewed all emotions as generally uncomfortable and annoying. _Just like my annual flu jab._  He’d denied all emotions as fickle and useless whilst still a lad in his short pants, an unpleasant by-product of human evolution. Sentiment ran parallel to weakness.

 _ **Love is never an advantage, Brother Mine.** _ “Stuff it, Mycroft,” Sherlock whispered defensively. “Stay out of my head. I’m already hosting a hallucinatory ghost and a psychotic dominatrix. There is no room at the inn.”

      _Stop talking to yourself, moron. Focus on the issue at hand. John. I must fix John. But how, when he can’t stand the sight of me? So strange, holding John in my arms. My friend. Always so worried that people would talk. He was so afraid people thought he was gay. Was he scared of the truth, unable to admit to what others observed?_

_I love you, John. I loved you, then._

_Foolish prat. Shut up. I did this to him. This is my fault. I must fix it…fix him. Make him right._

_I love him._

     At the rate of 0.016% of John’s BAC metabolized per hour…unknown variables including rate of consumption vs. overall consumption, present body mass in kilos, prior nutritional intake and minutes of REM sleep in the previous 24 hours…consciousness would return within six to ten hours. Histrionics and a hell of a hangover, T minus six and counting.

     John hands twitched unexpectedly within the warmth depths of the Belstaff. His compact hands clutched at Sherlock's flannel pyjama shirt, a security blanket of sorts? _This may end in disaster. A bloody bit not good._


	27. Bad-Assery and its Unexpected Consequences

     John dropped boneless to the pavement the second his captors let go. His bleary eyes rolled about, desperately attempting to track the exchange.

_What the…what? Who?_

     Inebriated and borderline hypothermic, John was close to falling unconscious. Too much happening at once, and too fast. Life had stopped making sense two whole months ago; tonight was just a continuation of crazy.

     Giving up, John flopped onto his back. He wished he was dead. Perhaps he might get his wish now, in this infernal, unusual chill. John closed his eyes, softly murmuring “Exterminate…Exterminate…” in a highly annoying robotic tone.

   Hell, if he was really lucky, K-12 would be along any time now..perhaps carrying the the sonic screwdriver between his... teeth? Did the little dog  _have_ teeth? Or, a mouth? John delved into his mental stockpile of Dr. Who trivia with little hope of success.

 _Silly Human, resistance is futile._     

     Despite his career in the army, John jumped ship. He copped out, dropped out, yielded the way and took a powder. He vacated, abdicated, discontinued…cut loose, flew the coop, flaked out and bailed. John…washed his hands of the whole affair.

_No more. I give up. I quit._

     While John was running out of pithy metaphors, Sherlock was kicking minion arse. John had surrendered to that fickle fucker, AKA Fate. Conversely, Sherlock was taking Fate by the bollocks and giving them a good, hard squeeze. During his minutes of recon, he’d spied a dirty mop near the kip. Perfect. Sherlock unscrewed the mop head from its slightly bent rod, and satisfied, chucked it aside. The chilly metal had a satisfying heft - just the tool he required.

     It might be three intelligence agents packing heat to one underfed and over-drugged consultant (in silk pants, nonetheless), yet it was an unfair contest... nonetheless.

     Sherlock kneecapped One and bestowed a minor concussion on Two. He upped the ante whilst knocking Three in the gob with a flip of his weapon. Two front teeth popped out of the man's mouth, accompanied by a fine spray of blood.

     It was a spectacular brawl, all things considered. Sherlock enjoyed it immensely. Mycroft had delivered upon Sherlock’s request, but had it been necessary to send such in such twats?

    Three years and several lifetimes ago, John would have heartily applauded Sherlock's bad-assery. Sherlock had arrived in the nick of time, serving in John's usual role. Sherlock had saved the day.

     Three years ago, John was a stranger to Mary, and had strange, unmentionable feelings for his flatmate. Today, John was a pickled pile of rags on the ground.

     **************************************

    The pickled pile in question snuffled, smelling something familiar. It was the scent of his home. A mixed bag of tea, chemical catalysts, formaldehyde, gun oil, over-priced toiletries, dust, wood smoke, curry, and the world's only consulting detective. Home. Lovely. But...wait.

     There was another odor emanating nearby. He burrowed into his...comforter? and told his nose to sod off. Time to turn over and go back to sleep. Tomorrow was sure to be another adventure of wrestling smugglers and insulting Anderson. He had things to do, people to shoot (at).

    John flipped over, restless. His mattress was too lumpy for comfort. Maybe it was time to buy new? He tensed as a full-body shiver struck his body. When had the upstairs gotten so bloody cold?

     It was possible he'd left the window open a crack. Sherlock had conducted some god-awful experiment that morning involving human toe nails and the stomach acid of sheep.

     Sometimes, it was just best to ignore. The rennet had been smelled _rank_ , however. Mrs. Hudson had been up twice this very day to cry foul. John found it necessary to flee to the loo.  

   Suppressing the obscene little giggle rising from his throat, John had slapped a hand across his lips and grinned upside the sink. Straining to hear to Sherlock defending his barmy experiment amidst the flapping hands and swallowed expletives of their landlady...well. You couldn't place a value on certain pleasantries. Some things were priceless.

     Shifting again, John was disquieted. Something was wrong. He was too cold, and his head was  _throbbing._ Yes, the flu had been going around, but he'd had the current vaccine.

     The annual jab was annoying and uncomfortable, but he'd viewed the pain of inoculations as a necessary evil since his days in the army. Taking stock, the doctor analyzed his physical condition and came to an unhappy conclusion.  _I feel like shit._ Maybe he'd contracted a virus at the clinic.

     _This isn't my home_.

    The first hint of panic began when John noticed the static silence of his bedroom. Sherlock had two general states: Uncommunicative and in "Mind Palace" pose, or obnoxious, obstreperous, and loud enough to wake the dead.

     The detective was a black-and-white git. Despite his unconventional association with Miss Irene Adler, there were no shades of grey in his world.

      _What's going on?_

John's sense of undoing rose with impeding sentience. His brain was in a pugnacious battle with " _T_ _oo_   _Much_ _Fucking Alcohol"._ Countless brain cells were dying, victims of a senseless war. It was The Killing Fields played in a petrie dish. Nevertheless, John had a military mindset. He struggled to regain consciousness with soldierly stoicism. 

      _Where the fuck am I? And why am I sitting in Sherlock's lap?_

 


	28. Mad as a Bag of Ferrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up to realize he's had a blackout. The trauma continues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "This is a sorry sight." - Macbeth, William Shakespeare

     John drifted closer to consciousness as early morning light filtered through the dusty window panes. He felt like he'd been hit by a lorry and left for dead. He felt shaky and ill, almost punch-drunk.

 _Ah. Drunk. I've been pissed off my arse for the last two weeks. How did I expect to feel?_    

   In his formative years, he'd been repulsed by his family and their malignant abuse of liquor. He'd endured his father's alcohol-induced beatings and his mother's cold-hearted indifference. Worst of all, as the youngest child, John to stand by, helpless to stop Harry's drinking. He felt like an unwilling spectactor at the world's slowest train crash.

  The entirety of John's childhood life had been spent circumventing their repellent behaviors. How in God's name had he let himself come to this? John bolted upward, nearly clocking Sherlock in the face. A light bulb switched on his brain, one of those obnoxiously bright ones that make your eyes go all spotty.

      _Fuck, fuck, fuck, bloody, sodding, everlasting FUCK!_     

    Scrambling, but failing to get to his feet, John opted for the "stop, drop, and roll" approach to evade the searing agony of Sherlock's embrace. 

     A litany of spluttered expletives ran from his lips in his ungainly attempt to stand. The wretched state of his body prevented him from reaching vertical.

     For the second time in 24 hours, John executed a spectacular face plant, entrapping himself in the canyon between the table and the sofa. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit!"

     Sherlock's reaction to John's violent explosion of consciousness caused him to wrench his limbs inward like a gigantic hedgehog. He stared, agog, as John flailed around on the carpet in his vain attempt to flee.

    "Oh..." Sherlock whispered, timidly drawing his right hand from the safety of his torso, and then hastily yanking it back in remembrance of John's reaction at the aquarium. His help was not wanted.

     Sherlock was an anathema to the doctor, now. The detective scrubbed the wetness from his eyes. Now what? Sherlock's unbelievable genius brain was no use at all when it came to emotions.

    Sherlock's inadequate people skills had been a social barrier since primary school. A millennium above his peers in intelligence, he was incapacitated every day interactions with other children. He was examining the fungal spores in the local soil sample while other lads his age were still eating dirt. He was as alien to other children as...well, as Spock was to James T. Kirk.

    A cataclysm of anxiety, due to John's horrified reaction, filled up his heart. He couldn't breathe. He was stuck mute. He was petrified of what new strange and unpleasant consequence his interference might bring.

    The only consolation he could offer himself was in acknowledging that without him budging in, John would be in hospital clad with soft restraints. 

   With a savage and militant effort, John drove himself a half-metre away from the sofa. Spinning on his hands and knees, he directed a ghastly glance at his friend.

     " _What_...why..." John pushed upright and knelt, hands at his head like a lunatic. The last thing John remembered was, well, he didn't know.

      _Black-out. I've done some moronic thing and can't even remember what that is. A sodding blackout. Perhaps I can patch things up with Harry, now that we have something in common!_

John wrapped his arms over his head and dropped his head. " _Rrrrrrah_!" he growled, finishing up with with a sob. "I'll never escape, you're like a recurring nightmare!"

     He released his arms and pushed off of the floor. Stumbling back, unaware of anything other than his desire for escape, he shot a poisonous finger at the frozen detective and shrieked, "I loved you! Then you died and took that away! Now I've lost Mary...are you  _trying_ to kill me? Is this some big game?" He howled at the ceiling and fled the flat in one desperate action.

 He still did not have any shoes.

 


	29. Friends Protect You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks his friends for help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Now is the winter of our discontent..." - King Richard III, William Shakespeare

     John leapt from the stairs leading to 221B as if the flat was afire. The doctor's tender feet thundered on the hardwood, stumbling as he fought for purchase on the foyer floor.

     He caught the fretful chatter of Mrs. Hudson, her voice increasing as volume as she opened her door. "John!" she gasped, hands flapping like tiny birds around her face. "Oh, heaven's... John...wait!"

    The widower flew past his landlady, sidestepping her attempts to corral him before he reached the street. His escape was quick and violent, leaving the heavy black-lacquered door swinging on its frame. The burnished brass knocker clapped twice before settling.

     Mrs. Husdon caught the door mid-slam, throwing back her head as she lamented, "Sherlock!" _What in the hell's going on? John looked a fright! And where in all of bloody Brighton were his shoes?!_

Sherlock unfroze on the sofa. He vaulted over the table and up to the front window in three long steps. He gawked at the battered figure of his friend, charging across the street swathed in his best blue dressing gown.

     Close to the kerb, John stopped cold as if he'd bashed into a brick wall. His antics would have been comical in more favorable circumstances, as the little man pirouetted in a circle.

     The wind snatched at the dressing gown's sleeves and tail, emphasizing John's diminutive frame. John resembled nothing so much as a a little lad playing dress-up in Mummy's finery. 

    Meanwhile, Mrs. Hudson continued her stream-of-consciousness chatter, querulously reaching the door to the flat with a poorly-masked grimace. Herbal soothers were useless in such circumstances. " _What_ is going on?" Sherlock whirled around, curls trailing behind.  _He really does need a haircut, poor thing. What with John gone..._

"Mrs. Hudson...John. John!" He jabbed a bony finger down at John, who was in the process of wrangling with the dressing gown sash. Sherlock was appalled with the knowledge that John was waging war on the leisure wear because it was his. 

The landlady reached the window as John yanked the offensive garb from his body. He stood, clenching it in his fists, eyes wild and teeth bared.

     They watched, mystified, as the widower fiercely embraced the blue silk, burrowing his face in its depths. Only the burnished tips of his ears were visible. Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson gaped at each other in unison, then snapped back to the heart-rending scene.

     Sherlock whined through his nose, dog-like in misery. Mrs. Hudson flung her tiny arms around Sherlock and stretched her neck like an arthritic giraffe to gaze at his face. "Sherlock, dear. Tell me what's going on!" 

     Sherlock stood mute, unable to respond. They followed John's agitated activity as he bundled the dressing gown under an armpit. He scuttled up over the kerb, disappearing around the corner.

     "Sherlock!" she bellowed, doing her best to snag his attention. Jerking to peer down at her, Sherlock wavered on the verge of speaking.

     He could not. There were no words that were capable of addressing John's condition, Mycroft's intervention (and Sherlock's subsequent rescue), John's choice of attire, and panicky flight down the street. Sherlock's tongue was paralyzed, language center off-line.

     Mrs. Hudson's long and convoluted relationship with Sherlock clued her in. She'd get no answer from him now. "Come along. Come now."

     She emphasized the gentle command with a little shake and guided him to his leather chair. Her tenant-slash-adopted son stood shaking. His face was a pasty shade of gray.

     "Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson cried, yanking at his upper arms to force him downward. Sherlock obeyed in shocked acquiescence and dropped boneless to the chair. She hustled around the flat until she spied his phone in the kitchen. "Call Mycroft!"

     "No!" Sherlock croaked, Mycroft's name puncturing his abstraction. "No, that's what led to this disaster."

     Mind back on-line, Sherlock gave a rapid-fire synopsis of the events. He reached out and hooked her closer by the arms with spastic intensity. "What do I do? How can I help him?" he entreated. "He can't stand to be in the same room as me!"

     "Well..." she paused, ruminating on the vision of John hugging blue silk, "I'm not sure that's the case. What I do know is that John needs your help. If Mycroft can't do it without bungling up, the berk, then we'll have to look elsewhere." 

     Eyes flickering, Sherlock sought out his list of comrades. It wasn't an impressive list. "Graham?" he surmised.

     "Who?" Mrs. Hudson wrinkled her nose with derision. "Honestly, Sherlock. It's  _Greg._ Greg Lestrade."

     Practically shoving the phone in his hands, she said "Call him right now! I'll ring Molly downstairs. He needs to get out of this cold!" Making for the door, the landlady turned and queried, "Now where did he leave his shoes?"


	30. Freinemy Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock has to do something grievous and foreign to his nature...he has to collaborate with a group of - how boring - people, for help. Awkward!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “And, like a man to double business bound,  
> I stand in pause where I shall first begin,  
> And both neglect.” -William Shakespeare  
> (Hamlet act 3, sc. 3)

     Sherlock was tilting the phone screen in an attempt to shield it from the sun's glare when it shrilled at full volume. He arched his back and almost dropped it in surprise.

     He'd been on edge since his run-in with Calverton Smith. He'd endured the ravages of drug addiction, subsequent and necessary drug withdrawal, undernourishment, sleep deprivation, major organ damage, emotional upheaval, a near snuffing, and Mycroft's incessant budging into his affairs.

    Sherlock had no qualms with any of these consequences because they'd been a necessary evil. On further reflection, he could have done without Mycroft's whinging, but still. He'd brave dragons and devils for his friend, for his love.

    Sherlock loved his best friend, John. The detective's devotion to his fearsome and fiery companion remained intense and unwavering, even in light of recent events.

     It was a bit overwhelming, to be honest. Sherlock might as well have "Sentiment is for Losers" tattooed across his forehead. Emotions cloyed up one's thought processes with illogical nonsense, chemical chatter in an otherwise organized mind.

     And yet, John's presence in Sherlock's life had altered him in so many ways. Most of the changes had been advantageous. The brewing fervor of affection, amusement, joy, and desperate love that John had prompted, however, sometimes filled him with fear. He was not able to think.

     He rung Gavin. No - Greg. The phone rang, and rang, and rang...nope. Nada. Nadie. Now what. He couldn't wait for Graham - bloody hell, _Greg_ , to finish his shower, or his morning constitutional, or whatever it was that kept him from answering. He would be forced to do the unthinkable. He needed his brother's help... _again._

    Placing an icy grip on his burgeoning swell of emotions, Sherlock turned the phone on and greeted the caller. Joy. Everlasting, miraculous, splendorous joy. _Not._

    "Hello, Mycroft. May I commend you on your choice of utter twats that you sent out as aid for John? He thoroughly enjoyed their presence in an otherwise dull evening. Especially the part where they gang-banged him in an alley and.."

    "Greetings, Brother Mine. Yes, I saw firsthand the warm welcome you gave my men. Men whom I sent on you behalf, mind. You knocked out Walters' two front teeth. Was that really necessary?" Mycroft's normal, smarmy tone was a little off tonight. He sounded almost...jolly?

     Sherlock yanked the phone from his ear, glaring at it irritably as if an electronic device could have its feelings hurt. "Yes, Mycroft. When I arrived, fortunately in the nick of time, your three morons had John utterly terrified! I wanted him safe, not insensate!"

    "I am sorry, dear brother. John's recent alcohol use has been extensive. One would think he'd been taking lessons from you in the art of mind alteration.."

     "Mycroft!" Sherlock seethed in an audible attempt to regain composure. "Mycroft, while I do not approve of your workforce, I do applaud your effort." The detective took a deep and shuddering breath. "I thank you for your attempt in...in...helping."

     "And now you are asking for it again." Mycroft replied gently, with a hint of empathy. 

 _Who has killed Mycroft and replaced him with this facsimile of my brother?_ "Bloody, buggering fuck, Mycroft, what's wrong with you?" Sherlock snarled. "Yes, I need help! John ran off in the cold again. He's injured and half-frozen.  _But I don't want you sending out any more men._ Just help me locate him and I'll send out Lestrade...when available.

     "I've already been monitoring the situation, thank you. He's only half a kilometre away." Mycroft gave the specs of John's whereabouts, cautioning Sherlock to "Remember his response from this morning. John is not eager for interference, I suspect. He will continue to fight, regardless of who comes to help,"

 


	31. Sherlock Learns to Speak Greek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the last chapter's conversation. I was too tired to finish it last night *sheepish grin* and accidentally posted it before it was done. Soo...yeah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.” Twelfth Night – William Shakespeare 
> 
> "...those that understood him smiled at one another and shook their heads; but, for mine own part, it was Greek to me."  
> Julius Caesar, act 1, sc. 2 - William Shakespeare

     "Obviously. Last night was...a bit not good. People are really not my area, and I don't - I can't - Mycroft, help me out here! Stop letting me blither on like an idiot and tell me what to do!" A slight sheen of perspiration defined his pronounced upper lip.

     Sherlock seldom appreciated or acknowledged his extraordinary good looks. It was all transport as far as he was concerned. It was true he preferred tailored suits in expensive fabrics, but not out of avarice or narcissism. Loose or bulky garb, sewn from unrefined or synthetic materials, set his teeth to grinding. The "wrong set" of clothing sent his brain into sensory overload. Itchy, abrasive, or constraining outerwear gummed up the works.

     Yes, he supposed his high-end wardrobe added a certain panache. Nevertheless, Sherlock would have worn muck boots and a clown suit if necessary to still his sensory qualms.

    The Belstaff, synonymous with the detective as much as his tetchy personality, was Sherlock's coat of armor against the outside world. It was heavy, made from pure Irish wool, and sheltered him from the soggiest English rains.

     It added flair and drama to his persona, and played an integral part when dissembling into character. Sherlock saw the posh dress coat as his one vice. Well, besides heavy drug use and nicotine addiction...but that went without saying.

    Sherlock desperately pressed the phone to his ear, unconsciously fluttering his sooty lashes. His color had returned, high and in stark contrast to the jade and silver flashes in his irises.

     John would have had to turn away, breath hitching and heart racing, at the vision of his detective in high dudgeon. If John had been there, that is.

     Which he was not.

    "Listen close, Little Brother. I'm beginning to believe that your hysterical behavior reflects more than juvenile affection. Upon the preponderance of information you've given me, I am compelled to inquire. Do you feel sentiment for your doctor, Sherlock? Do you in fact love him?" Mycroft spoke without inflection or insinuation. So careful. He had to be so careful with his tempestuous sibling.

    Sherlock sprung from his chair and mopped his face dry. "I...ghhrrrrRRR! Yes! Fine! I've debased myself and fallen in love like a boring, ordinary civilian. I've submitted to my baser instincts, is that what you want to hear? That I've bought a goldfish? 

     "Sherlock, I.." Mycroft began.

    "John...is _NOT_...a goldfish, you pompous arsehole! He is...JOHN...and he's _out_ there, an..." Sherlock gasped in a breath, on the verge of hyperventilating. " _Fine!_ I knew better than to ask for your help. Fuck off, Mycroft. Enjoy your lonely..."

     "Sherlock, for God's sake! Shut up and listen.  _I will help you in any way I can, even if that means we end this conversation now and never speak of it again._ You have asked for my help and I am now offering it. I am merely suggesting that your doctor may resist any efforts for rescue. It's a delicate situation, and you are running out of time in which to prevent disaster. We must establish a plan."

     Mycroft wiped his own face with an organic cotton handkerchief. His upper lip had beaded with sweat. His little brother always caused such visceral reactions. Love was such an inconvenience. He cleared his throat and began to speak.

     Mrs. Hudson clambered unsteadily up the stairs, reminding herself to put on some sensible shoes after this debacle was finished. She was getting too old for this shite. It was going to take more than herbs to sooth her hip this evening!

     After a brief conversation with Molly, she'd established that John had gone incognito almost a week hence. Molly'd not seen hide nor hair of him.

 _Poor dear, having that little one thrust upon her like that. Molly is an angel._ "Sherlock?" She called from the landing, having heard Sherlock's end of his phone conversation with his idiot elder brother. "What news from Mycroft?"

     Sherlock stormed across the flat and stood there anxiously. He thrust the phone in her direction, intoning dolefully that "Mycroft wants to speak with you. He feels that I am too emotionally...erm...invested at the moment to think clearly." Sherlock shuffled aimlessly at the door, reduced to a mentality of a four-year-old by the force of sheer agony. 

     Mrs. Hudson shot a startled glance at Sherlock. She agreed for once with the pompous twit, but Sherlock doing what his brother asked without question? Unheard of. She resisted the temptation to check his forehead for fever. She picked the phone from Sherlock's trembling fingers. "Mycroft? Emma."

     Sherlock backed into his flat and straight to his room. He flopped morosely upon it's unused surface, setting a layer of dust to dance in the air above his head. It had been many days since he'd had a decent night's rest.

     Within minutes the detective was ensconced in a dreamless sleep, lulled by the commandeering tone in his landlady's voice. When push came to shove, she always knew what to do.

 

 


	32. Mycroft, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade, and 100 Tramps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saving John takes a village. Saving Molly takes a well-hung detective.

*Two months, eighteen days, and seventeen hours after the death of Mary*

     Greg sat in Molly's tiny breakfast nook, scrubbing at his eyes. He'd nursed this cup of coffee for over an hour, trying to regroup his scattered thoughts.

     The detective's eyes were bloodshot and bleary, stressed after two days' hard work. Greg wished he could get back to his regular job facing murder and mayhem. Solving London's crimes was infinitely more pleasant than watching his friend deconstruct, one drink at a time.

     Molly sat down, balancing Rosie on one hip with lukewarm cup of coffee in her hand. She slid the cup to the cracked Formica table, sighing in exhaustion whilst rolling her neck.

     Rosie sucked intently on her nook as she gave the detective the fish eye. Greg gazed back in her guileless eyes and held up a finger. Rosie grabbed it with one chubby fist and hummed favorably.

     The infant popped the nook out with her other hand and squeaked "EE-yah! Bah!" Rosie emphasized her statement by banging her nook on the table top.

    "Tell me all about it, precious girl." Greg smiled, face brightening perceptively and straightening up. His face lost five years.

    "mmmBAH!" Rosie squealed wetly, drool dropping from her rosebud lips to his hand. She tugged Greg's finger to her mouth and noisily began to chew on the digit. "Rosie!" Greg protested. "Yuck! You slobbered on me!" 

    "Oi, Lord knows where your hands have been!" Molly admonished. "You've been out all night running with tramps!" She jerked Greg's arm away from her charge, and Greg inspected his glistening finger as if he could see the bacteria swarming upon it. Rosie grumbled at losing her prize.

    "Sorry, Molly-Girl. You're right." He pushed his chair back and kissed Rosie's cheek. He maneuvered past the table to the sink and began to soap his hands.

    "Tell me about it, Greg. How is he?" Molly's somber eyes met his. "He's going to kill himself if he doesn't stop this. God, I can't take this!" Molly's eyes welled up, shining with tears. "It's so unfair."

    Steam curled around Greg's face as he rinsed, shaking his hands twice to dry off. He joined her back at the table. "Yeah, that it is. No-one deserves this less than John, what with having to cope with Sherlock's disappearance. Now Mary, and he cracked!"

    Molly's stomach roiled with guilt, remembering the lies she'd been prevailed upon to tell. Sherlock's trust had suffused warmth in her belly - that is, until she had to numbly stand aside and do nothing as John suffered...and suffered...and suffered.

    Two little words would have ended his torment.  _Sherlock's alive._   Her promise to save one man had demolished the other. Now, there was nothing she could say, nothing she could do to bring Mary back. Her tears fell with a sob. 

     "Listen, hey." Greg scooted closer and gave her a squeeze. "This is what happened. When Mycroft called, he gave me specific instructions. What to do, what to say. We've come up with a plan, all of us. Mycroft, Sherlock, Emma, us..." Greg flapped his hand between their bodies, "and Sherlock's Homeless Network. John is not going to die. Until he's gotten back on his feet, he's got protection. We're all watching out for him. He can't go too far."

     Rosie grabbed at Greg's arm as he held Molly close. "And Rosie, you're keeping her safe. Now, I know Mycroft's a git, but he always been there when Sherlock's needed him. You can trust that he'll do right by John, and part of that means providing for Rosie."

     Greg bit his lip, a little abashed at his next words. "Emma's planning on coming by today to talk to you about a...a trust that Mycroft has set up for this little one." Greg touched Rosie's nose. "As  much as you need, as long as John needs." 

     Molly scrutinized Greg's expression, suddenly wary. They'd worked together for years, but now were navigating uncharted waters. "What are you saying, Greg?"

     Now Greg really looked uncomfortable, shifting about on his chair. "Well, I couldn't speak for you, Molly. It's not my place to say what you should do."

     Greg launched to his feet and carded long fingers through his hair, leaning on the sink."Mycroft...em, well  he assumed you would want to, ya know, keep caring for Rosie. Have her here, until John is capable of having her back. And he would...oh god, give you money and such..."

     Molly jettisoned out of her chair, unconsciously cradling Rosie's head to protect her fragile neck. "Mycroft thought I wanted  _money_ to keep my promise as Rosie's godmother?  _He..."_

 _"No!_ Calm down, for god's sake." Greg pulled up her chair. "Sit down, before you give Rosie whiplash. No. We all realize how wonderful you've been in honoring John and Mary's wishes. Nobody questions that. It's just that, well, this is a big responsibility. You shouldn't have to cope with it all on your own."

     Molly seated herself with a huff, cheeks crimson in fury as she resettled Rosie. Loose strands of hair from her ponytail wreathed her sleep-deprived face.

     "I would do  _anything_ for John's baby, even if that means taking care of her long-term. I made a promise." Molly held Greg's gaze at the sink steadily. Her tears were all gone."You _know_ that I keep my promises, Greg. I don't need incentive to do it. I love her."

     Molly buried her head into Rosie's belly. The baby gripped Molly's hair in tight, dimpled fists, snuggling back.

     Greg squatted at the table. He cemented his body around theirs, boxy torso cradling Molly's chair. "I know, babe. I know. You are one of the strongest, most steadfast people I know. Rosie couldn't ask for better."

     He squeezed even tighter, expelling a pleased huff of air as Rosie released Molly with one hand and captured Greg's nose in a mighty Kung-Fu grip.

    The three indulged in their collective warmth before Greg stood up, knees popping. He arched his back with hands on hips, sourly stating "God, I hate getting old."

     He leaned his palms on the table and beheld Molly resolutely. "Molly, I'd like to help out, too." He exhaled at the floor and then earnestly caught her warm gaze. "I'd like to be here for you, Molly. To help with the baby, yeah, but, for more. I want to spend time with you."

     A sheepish grin shot across his face. "I mean, yeah, the other night was great, don't get me wrong, I mean... _yeah..._ but." Big breath in. "I want a relationship with you, Molly Hooper. I want something more." 

     Molly's eyes teared up in earnest now, and her bottom lip quivered. "I do too, Greg. I do, too."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, that end part was really rather pathetic. But, damn it, Molly deserves her happy ending. The writers so screwed her over in S.4


	33. It Starts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John thought he'd hit bottom, but it turns out there was a sub-basement in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "...o full of artless jealousy is guilt, It spills itself in fearing to be spilt."  
> – William Shakespeare
> 
> “Excellent wretch Perdition catch my soul, But I do love thee and when I love thee not, Chaos is come again." -William Shakespeare

 Two months, ten days, and five hours after the death of Mary.

 _Bloody, buggering...Jesus Christ what have I done...get away, get away, I have to get away Fucking Sherlock!_ No _matter what I try to do I always end up hurting him. Why the bloody fuck was he holding me? It's not like he cares **.**_

_**(no he cares too much)** _

_Stop looking at me, you fucking wankers. Like you'd do any better? Fuck off...and get out of my way._

**God, I'm so tired. Sherlock, I love you. I** ' _ **m so very sorry.** _

__

  _W_ _hat the Fuck? Stop blocking me! Why are you arseholes slowing me down? Jesus, are you FUCKERS doing it on purpose?_

_Jesus, lady...walk much? What do you want from me? Stop LOOKING at me like that. Who are you working for, Mycroft? That meddling bastard!_

"Get away from me! Let me through! Goddamned..Don't you TOUCH me!" John screamed, eyes flashing madly at the congestion of pedestrians.

_Damn. Damn, this is more like the stunts Moriarty would pull - bloody maniac._

_Why are these people following me?  Christ, look at them! They're fencing me in!_

_What. Is. Going. On?_

_Is that Greg?_

_**SHIT SHIT SHIT** _ _**SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT SHIT** _

_**He's coming to get me.** _

_************************************** _

     Greg drove away from Molly's flat with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face. He was satiated in mind and spirit after the glorious night of shagging.  _Good God, what a woman Molly is, just waiting there all these years for someone to see her. So beautiful, so sexy...dear God._

     Greg's smile dimmed a tad as he ruminated on the years he'd watched her live life as a spectator. She pined after Sherlock, probably the most unobservant wanker alive when it came to understanding women. She'd never stood a chance. 

 _Honestly, I think the man's gay. The way he'd always go on about John. John this, John that._ Greg's smile disintegrated in the image of Sherlock, strung out and off his tits on drugs in that hare-brained attempt to help John after Mary died.  _John. The only human being Sherlock's ever cared about._

     The frigid winter sun blinded him as he turned east toward his house. His hand flailed about in his glove box, looking for sunglasses that weren't there. Squinting, he pulled over to the kerb for a better look, blinking to clear the black spots clouding his vision.

     His phone rang.  _Bloody Hell. Mycroft Holmes? At six a.m.?_ Greg answered suspiciously, desperately hoping that Sherlock hadn't gone and got himself into trouble. Mycroft was brief and to the point. Greg's mood went to pot. He slammed down the gas pedal and made a hasty u-turn.

Spying his quarry, Greg squealed to a stop. The car gave a vicious jerk as it slammed into park. John was dodging the flow of early morning commuters with a ball of blue fabric tucked into his left arm - unconsciously miming a quarterback rushing the ten-yard line.*

     People were leaving a wide berth around him, obviously noting his outlandish behavior. He flew out of the driver's seat and made a cursory attempt to close the door behind him. He had to get John under control before the man seriously hurt himself. 

     "John!" Greg bawled at the top of his voice. "John! John Watson!" The detective knew the moment John heard him calling. John abruptly bolted across the street, nearly colliding with a lumbering MetroDecker bus. "Christ, John! Wait!"

       _He can't see me like this._ John risked a panicked glance back at his friend, trying to assess his proximity. A portly gentleman took that moment to exit the the parallel shop.

     The waddling blockade of human flesh gave a hoarse croak, flinging his arm up in defense of the little man barreling into his path. John didn't stand a chance.

    He trampolined off the man's gut and bounced back with a grunt. Dropping, he executed a sloppy backwards somersault and came to a stop of his arse. John gazed up at the man blindly, paralyzed. His body had reached it's tipping point. 

     John rolled onto his back and shut his eyes against the nosy ring of spectators hovering around his body. Greg put all of his detective persona into his shout of "Clear the way! Police!"

     He pushed the slowpokes aside, flashing a ferocious eye in their direction. "Back it up, people!"

     The remaining rubberneckers shuffled back as Greg slid to a squat besides his friend. John's chest was heaving, and freshets of bright red blood were streaming from his nose from colliding with the man's elbow. The man in question wobbled at the sight and fell on to his arse as well, whispering "Shite!" in his shock. 

     There was nothing for it. The detective yanked out his phone and called for an ambulance. Then, he called Mycroft. Someone was going to have to clean up this mess!

 

 

 

     

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *American football...the quarterback throws the ball and generally controls the direction of offensive play.


	34. Breaking Bad

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John heads to the A & E as chaos ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “They say, best men are moulded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad." - William Shakespeare

     John fought the paramedics, the nurses and doctors, and most of all, Greg. He batted away their attempts to stop his blood flow, flinging red droplets about his person until it looked as if he'd harpooned a dead pig.

     Opting to ride alongside his frenzied friend, Greg was sick at the sight of John's disturbing behavior. It was necessary to switch into professional mode, shoving his emotions into the back recesses of his mind. Otherwise, tears would have streamed from Greg's eyes. John was in so much agony, and he was so helpless to stop it.   

     After landing a mean right hook on the sturdy female paramedic grabbing for his arm, John was secured with restraints and sedated.

     Greg looked away, avoiding the guttural howls of frustration and fear emanating from his flailing friend. John in high dudgeon was terrifying to observe, whether when protecting Sherlock or defending himself.

     He seemed to draw on some hidden resource of energy as his strength rose out of proportion to his body size. John's behavior was akin to Greg's childhood cairn terrier Toby, feisty and frightful when chasing after a rat.

     John's vitals were reading somewhat sketchy. Considering the amount of alcohol he'd consumed, Greg assumed he'd have a decreased heart rate with depressed respiration.

    John's body, despite receiving a healthy dose of some sedative, was fighting some unknown battle. His heart and respiration rates were dangerously elevated, blood pressure off the charts.

    Weirdest of all, John's exposed skin was beaded with a fine layer of perspiration. He'd been running through the streets of London barefoot, dressed in street clothes. In sub-zero temperatures.

     Greg sat tight in a corner of the waiting room at the A & E, in-between restless bouts pacing the hospital hallways. John, the good Dr. Watson, had always inhabited a special corner of the detective's heart. Sherlock was a royal pain in the arse, no contest there, but the man was so, so much more.

     If one had the patience, not to mention the incredible amount of energy needed to ride him out, Sherlock might just share his most closely guarded secret; he was a man with an exceptionally sensitive and sentimental nature.

     Greg could only imagine the trauma Sherlock'd incurred during his early life. He'd been on the wrong end of a fist within the first two hours at primary school. By the end of his first day, Sherlock had endured a black eye, a bloody nose, and a severe reprimand by the principal. His lunch was either thrown into the bog or eaten by some other kid. Every...fucking...day. _It's no wonder the bloke never eats._

     The genius's unusual gifts were provocative, and not in a good way. _He's the perfect example of "Kill or be killed." Turn into a complete arsehole, or have the snot beat out of him by every bloody bully in Britain. Kids can be so fucking cruel._

     Greg precipitously shot out of his cheap plastic chair, frustrated beyond measure with his own helplessness. _What the hell is taking the doctor so long? And why was John so...well, what? Crazy?_   Greg punted the chair across the worn lino, following its lazy circling with dead eyes.

   Within twenty-four hours of being introduced, Sherlock had cheerfully appointed John in the thankless role of social interpreter, behavioral analyst, and personal body guard.

     The fuck of it was, John had accepted the challenge with aplomb. The army captain genuinely relished Sherlock's asinine schemes, feeding off the adrenaline like a junkie. Sherlock brought the crazy, John brought the calm.       

    They were yin and yang.  _Partners in crime, those two._ Greg chuffed softly without much amusement.  _Bread and butter. Peas and carrots. Whatever. All I know is that John is **the only** person Sherlock has ever trusted this way. If something tragic happens to John,_ well. This train of thought was depressing the hell out of Greg. _  
_

     For lack of anything tangible to do, Greg kept his mind occupied with fruitless conversations via text with Molly, Mycroft and Sherlock.

     He nursed a piss-poor cup of coffee. It was disgusting, but he was desperate for the caffeine. At 9:42 a.m. Greg was to cheered to see Mycroft materialized, dapper and dignified whilst dandling his umbrella. He was exhausted by the short, lonely vigil.

     The politician crossed his legs and consulted his phone. Greg jimmied his legs, debating the merits of storming the nurses' station. It seemed a very long time to go without an update, considering John's only obvious injury was a nosebleed.

     A bit before noon, a harried-looking woman in scrubs stood at the doorway. A single and very disheveled grey braid trailed down her back. The men rose to their feet and spared a look at each other at her sober expression.

     Mycroft stepped forward, smiling thinly. "Hello, Dr..."

    "Dr. Michels, thank you." Greg peered at her face. The doctor had three fresh scratches crossing her nose and right cheek. They looked painful.

    "Let's move to another room so we can talk more privately." She gestured to a darkened closet-sized consultation room, where they settled around a small table. "To begin, you are..." She flashed her eyes at the men.

     "Mycroft Holmes. My brother is a very close friend of Mr. Watson's. As he is indisposed, I am here on his behalf." Mycroft swept imaginary lint off his sleeves, aggrieved and a little afraid. "He was ill, you see."

     "I'm Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. I was at present the scene where John was injured. He's also a very good friend of mine. We've worked together professionally through NSY for the last five years."

     In defiance of the doctor's suspicious perusal of his unwashed (I've been shagged bloody senseless by a post-mortem forensics specialist) appearance, Greg flashed a cheesy PR smile and whipped out his badge. 

     “John’s emergency contact is listed as Mary Watson, his spouse. I’m afraid I can’t…”

   Mycroft cut through the doctor’s words like a knife through butter. “And, I’m afraid to tell you that Mrs. Watson was shot and killed two months hence. We are the closest to thing to relations John Watson has, sadly.”

    Dr. Michels expression darkened appreciably. "Well...then. According to Dr. Watson's records he was diagnosed with PTSD after being invalided. Has he been drinking heavily this whole time, or..."

    "No!" Greg protested, flushing. He bit his lip in shame at the outburst. "No. He's solid. He went through therapy and worked through it. This.." his hand flapped restlessly in a vague circle, "only started after Mary died. He's steady, solid, regular. Not mental, not a drinker. Not  _this."_

"I see. Well, then that tells me that John's alcohol consumption has been excessive. He's been diagnosed with alcohol-related psychosis."

     "He's psychotic?" Mycroft queried, unbelieving. "Is this a permanent condition?"

     "Fortunately, no. If he stops drinking, that is. As of now, John is unaware of his present location. He's been hallucinating and delusional. He thinks he's been kidnapped...and tied to a bomb? His speech has been very disorganized. John's been calling for Sherlock and ...Rosie? Also, Mary. We've sedated him with a very small dose of Ketamine and kept him in soft restraints. As you can see," she indicated her scratches, "he's been rather combative."

      "So, what now, Dr.?" Mycroft murmured.

     "Once all the alcohol has been metabolized out of his system he will be assessed through our psychiatric department. John's recent loss, not to mention the previous PTSD diagnosis, are unknown variables as far as estimating the length of recovery time."

     Dr. Michels took a deep breath and eyed them both. "He's showing the first signs of serious withdrawal, and I anticipate more serious symptoms of delirium tremens to emerge within the next seventy-two hours.         John's been hooked up to an EEG machine for monitoring seizure activity. He's also receiving fluids and a nutritional supplement. His thiamine level is low, and he's obviously malnourished. He needs time, and sleep. After that, we wait and see."

     The room fell silent. Both men contemplated the irony of the situation. John, the rock in Sherlock's life, the unwavering companion who had stood by Sherlock's brushes with relapse without batting an eye, was in crisis. It was their duty, now, to safeguard John from his demons.

    Greg suddenly felt very small.

 

    

     

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> vsearch.nlm.nih.gov/vivisimo/cgi-bin/query-meta?v%3Aproject=medlineplus&v%3Asources=medlineplus-bundle&query=alcohol-induced+psychosis&_ga=1.21842171.1562935202.1489000836


	35. Daytime Telly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'm from a land called secret Estonia  
> Nobody knows where it's at" - Kerli

     

    Mary tumbles back into the safety of John's chair, utterly spent. It is excruciating to be constrained in the role of impotent voyeur. Agonizing, really, to be so sodding helpless. She glues her eyes on the telly long after they've grown sticky and hot. It doesn't matter. This is where she needs to be.

   Mary sorts among the fragments of concrete information she gleans. Conducting basic recon, Mary deduces that: one, she is dead, two, she's been unwittingly thrust into some hellish purgatory, and three, she has a cruelly limited supply of energy to work with. Lastly, the fourth fact indicates that life beyond the veil seriously sucks.

    She discovers that braying at the top of her lungs, lips practically kissing the screen, allows Mary to "speak" to her boys. This roughshod, method of communication is incredibly taxing, and irritatingly inconsistent. Apparently, dead people still get winded, and spit saliva whilst screaming. Ludicrous. 

     She  senses when she gets through, primarily by the men's expressions of terror and confusion. Mary hates that these were the only emotions she provokes in the two. Once, Sherlock jumps as if he'd been goosed. 

     The former mercenary despises trial-and-error methodology. What she really needs is a "So, Now That You're Dead" information guide. A DVD would be convenient, considering the telly...bloody hell, at this point even a post-it note would be appreciated!

     Accurate information is crucial in any situation, notwithstanding the level of importance. Mary never walks in to a situation blind, whilst on a covert mission or at Tesco scoping out the nappy selection.

    Information is power. Power is key to survival. Mary feels a tear meandering down her cheek. _This time,_ _it's not my survival I'm fighting for._

On the telly, the oscillating image of John comes back into focus. Her husband sprawls lifelessly, enfolded in the tender confines of Sherlock's arms. His feet and face are free of dirt and blood, but marred by bruising and torn skin. John is suffering. He is suffering because of her. Mary turns away. It is too much.

     Mary zooms in on Sherlock. Fat, miserable tears coursed over the gaunt topography of his face, and his beautiful mouth is marred by frequent bouts of silent sobbing. His reverence, the tender way in which he cradles his friend...well. Mary doesn't possess enough tears. 

_It is so obvious. Sherlock loves John, the way that I love John. No...he loves him more._

   _Why else would he accept me so freely?_

      _I've been bloody gormless. Sherlock jumped off a building for John...I don't have it in me to be that selfless._

   _Rozaliya Mari Kukk, child of Eesti Vabariik. Raised Roman Catholic, orphaned by twelve. Am I still Rozaliya? Am I even Mary?_

  _I did the right thing. Something was always going to come my way. I burned one too many bridges._

_It must have done. I was going to get shot sooner or later. At least I was able to chose my time._

_And Sherlock is there for John._

_God, I am tired._

  Mary flashes a macabre grin about the cramped waiting room. This really _is_  hell. Not one blasted coffee machine in evidence. What she'd do for one measly Jaffa cake. 

_Rozaliya Mari_

_Mother to Rosie. Will you miss me, love? Will you remember my face? My voice?_

_Põdral maja metsa sees_  
Väiksest aknast välja vaatab  
Jänes jookseb kõigest väest  
Lävel seisma jääb  
Kopp-kopp lahti tee  
Metsas kuri jahimees  
Jänes tuppa tule sa  
Anna käppa ka 

The nursery rhyme echoes around her, through her, memories of a stolen life.

 

 _Maybe..._ "Rosie. Rosie. Rosie"

 Mary's most precious gift shimmers on the screen.  _Rosie!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reindeer has a little house in the forest  
> He's looking out from a small window  
> The rabbit is running towards the house  
> And he stops in the doorway  
> Knock-knock, open up  
> There's an evil hunter in the forest  
> The reindeer says to the rabbit  
> Come inside and shake my hand
> 
> https://www.letssingit.com/kerli-lyrics-creepshow-gtbjpbg#ixzz4b0cQHH6S


	36. Bottom's Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives treatment in the hospital while his friends rally around.

     Dr. Watson plodded through the hospital receiving area, weaving between the bustling paramedics and attending physicians. The night shift sucked the life out of him, somehow. St. Bart's ran overfull with patients at night, particularly during cold spells.

   Maybe, cabin fever was to blame? Who could say for sure. The only thing John knew for certain was that he was too knackered to think.

     John finagled a computer at the nurse's station, yanking over a battered office chair to appease his bum leg. He sipped at the near-scalding cup of coffee in his hand, oblivious to the protest of his much-abused tongue. Caffeine was essential. Taste buds were not.

     Dr. Watson logged into the NHS server, taking advantage of the slow-moving software to stretch his shoulder and neck.  _I am getting to old for this night-shift_ _crap_. _Christ, my body's falling apart. Even my feet hurt._

John's neck cracked like tinder in a fireplace as he tilted it to and fro, ameliorating stiff muscles. _Time to get back to work, Methuselah._   _Rosie's public schooling_ _won't pay for itself._

His newly assigned John Doe was being admitted for a plethora of symptoms, primarily caused by a simply obscene BAC, co-morbid with severe hypothermia.

   John was keeping a close eye on the tips of the patient's fingers and toes, spotting what he thought might be a bit of cellular damage. Once the John Doe's vitals had stabilized Dr. Watson planned to conduct a complete neurological exam. 

     It was going to be a a long haul for this poor sap. He'd been completely off his rocker coming in. As a soldier and a medic, John had been witness to a fair number of psychotic episodes. This guy took the cake, though, for being absolute bat-shit crazy.

    Upon admission, John had attempted a rapid vitals check. The doctor shared an exasperated glance with the paramedic and shook his head. The patient was thrashing about, bellowing at the top of his lungs about falling.

    Then he went off during physical transfer from the gurney. John made the decision to order 10 mg haloperidol and 2 mg benztropine IM., despite the level of alcohol in his system.

     This man was putting everyone in danger, not least of all himself. His weak physical condition mattered naught, given the intensity of his psychotic episode.

     It was unclear whether the mental condition of the man was induced by alcohol, or if he had a pre-existing mental illness. That diagnosis would have to wait until 72 hours after complete withdrawal. Frankly, it didn't even matter at this point. Treat the symptom. 

**_Save the life._ **

_what?_

_**I'll solve the murder.** _

_what in blazes..._

_**You save the life.** _

     A new face entered the exam room.  _Oh, brilliant. My favorite attending. Everyone, please give a round of applause to the queen bee herself, Dr. Michels._ Dr. Michels, a transfer from down south, had a stick up her ass the size of America.

    She was a counter-intuitive physician, and John was fagged as it was. Waging a battle of wits over the proper course of treatment was not in his agenda for the evening.

     The John Doe's response to sedation came rather expeditiously, as he could now leave this mess to the snarky attending and get back to filling out paperwork.  _Thank the bloody heavens above that I can escape the likes of her._

    He left after establishing a follow-up protocol, to grab a cuppa and finally get off his feet. His toes were really killing him.

  _ **Save the life.**_

 __ _Shut up. Who is saying that?_

John peered around the darkened nurses' station. No one present that he could see.  _Dr. Michels is fucking it up in there, you know she is. She'd probably cancelling your protocol. How she climbed this far up the ladder..._

 

**John. John, wake up. You're in hospital. It's Greg, John. I brought you in. You're hurt.**

_Shut up. Why can't everyone just shut up and let me get back to my work?_

John...It's Mycroft Holmes. I'm concerned with how you are doing. We're all concerned. Can you open your eyes and look at me?

        _Fuck off, Mycroft. Go bother "Brother Mine."_

 _Goddamn it, I knew that twat was going to d/c the benztropine. What does she know about psychosis? Go to Afghanistan, dear. Then you can explain why reducing my John Doe's sedation level is an appropriate step. Have you **seen**_ _men tearing into their faces, screaming -_

**John** _**.** _ **Wake up.**

      

      _No. I can't. I can't. I want Sherlock. bring me Sherlock._

_i want sherlock_

**Did he just ask for Sherlock, Mycroft?**

I don't know. I didn't catch what he said.

**Say it again, John. Tell me what you want, and I'll get it for you.**

"Please. Please, Greg. I want to see Sherlock." 

     The voices had stopped, About bloody time, he had work to do, and he was anxious to get home to Mary. She was due any day now!


	37. Let's Have Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Alicia become friends as well as lovers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed; She is woman, and therefore to be won" - William Shakespeare  
> (Henry VI Part 1 – Act 5, Scene 2)

     Mycroft bid his brother goodnight, then sunk down in his fire-side arm chair with a heavy "whoomph" of air. A phalanx of emotions flitted across his pale visage, infused with light from the fire.

     Mycroft was spent after managing a slew of unfamiliar emotions. The statesman's oft-repeated phrase - "Caring is not an advantage" (most often used in verbal sparring contests with his tempestuous little brother), failed to assuage his unrest. 

_I am at a definite disadvantage tonight. I find that I care very much about John Watson. I am the Iceman, dammit! I practically am the British government...not that's I'd ever concur with Little Brother's assertion. It's times like tonight that I come closest to comprehending Sherlock's proclivity for drugs._

_This is ridiculous. I am helpless when attending to matters of the heart._

The less flamboyant, but more powerful Mr. Holmes eased back, stretching out his stork-like legs. He needed to recoup the Mycroft who convened with members of Parliament. He needed to  muster the version of Mycroft that used cold logic and hardhearted reasoning to triumph over chaos.

_Here I sit, craving a smoke. One tiny, low tar cigarette would be lovely._

   Mycroft felt odd in his own skin. Using his bony toes as wedges, he removed his shoes and socks. The fire toasted his toes most pleasantly, and Mycroft found his roiling thoughts simmer down. The elder Holmes cleared his mind of minutiae through sheer force of will. 

     _I must focus on the necessities...the current political requisites...the indispensable duties. The principal tasks...that I...as the...oh, bugger._

     Mycroft yipped as the phone buzzed in his hand. He'd forgotten it in his melancholy musings. Tilting the screen up, an unexpected thing happened. The politician's pallid face lit up with a smile.

_My my. Alicia Smallwood. Splendid!_

* * *

 

    Alicia gravitated closer to the mirror above the cherry wood vanity, delicately applying one last coat of mascara on her sparse eyelashes.  _What I wouldn't give to be twenty years younger. All of my attributes are dwindling into "blah."_

She tilted her well-coiffed head from one side to the other for a last-minute inspection. Not perfect, but sufficient for the evening ahead.  _If I have my way, this painstaking prep work will all be for naught._

    A dirty little smirk flitted along her tiny mouth, recalling the abandon with which she and Mycroft had shed their respective clothing and grabbed at each other like a pair of sex-crazed fourth-years.

    Her hair tangled into a an unmanageable rat's nest, and mascara got trapped in the fine lines around her eyes. In case of point, she'd looked quite the tart. The evening had been entirely satisfactory...until Mycroft received the text from his loose cannon of a brother.

_Who would imagine that under that saccharine smile lies the heart of a romantic? Not I, and we've had dealings together for the last fifteen years. Mycroft holds himself quite close, especially regarding the penchant for rescuing Sherlock. What it must have been like living together as children!_

_Well. Anyway._

    Lady Smallwood swiveled away from her vanity and stood up, conscientiously smoothing her dress. Beautiful, ephemeral silk in cerulean blue, so contrary to her usual conservative fare. There was more one that way of dressing to impress. And she did. Want to impress, that is. The night of passion she had reveled in with Mycroft was a reminder of the life she'd eschewed in her choice of career.

     The dainty woman stepped lithely into the foyer. She peered past the driveway down the lane. Mycroft was due momentarily. He'd booked a table at the Massimo, on Northumberland.

    Alicia's heels tapped as she meandered back to the sitting room. Oh, how dazzled she been when receiving Mycroft's tribute of their night together. One-hundred luscious red roses in lead crystal vases.

    The flowers were beginning to turn, but still held a heady scent that filled the entire first floor. Mycroft, a romantic. Who would ever suspect.  _Not me! Not in a million years._

    Headlights flashed through the front windows, prompting Alicia to swing on her coat and bag in a single flurry of movement. Mycroft eased to a stop under the porte-cochere .....yes, Mycroft. No driver tonight. A bolt of lust shot down her abdomen. Love be a lady, tonight.

     A genteel rap on the door, a kiss and a courteous escort into the passenger-side leather seat, and Alicia was coasting alongside Mycroft in a sleek black sedan. He certainly knew how to pull out all the stops!

     Upon Alicia's suggestion, Mycroft set the stereo on a classical station. He idly wondered if his baby brother had ever practiced this particular Tchaikovsky violin concerto. Concerto in D major, Op. 35. The labyrinthine solo was a circuitous melody, loud and exuberant. It very well suited him. A better brother would have known.

     They spoke very little on the drive to the restaurant. Mycroft had spoken extensively about Sherlock's continuing dilemmas during their earlier phone call. Alicia had let him ramble on without interruption. It was an unusual situation for them both. 

    Mycroft seldom ventured a single word about his disconcerting brother, and he certainly never spoke about his  _feelings_. He believed in letting sleeping dogs lie.

    Alicia was seldom privileged with Mycroft's opinion, on anything other than matters of government. She warmed inwardly with the implied intimacy of the conversation.

    Mycroft had honored her with this confidence. He trusted her with this most personal and confidential information. Alicia hoped that she might provide some insight to ease Mycroft's anxiety. He had enough on his plate as it was.     

     Mycroft had reserved a semi-secluded table. Alicia blushed a vivid pink whilst Mycroft pulled out her seat for her. His manners were reminiscent a long-gone era of civility, quaint and charming as a Victorian steward.

    An ornate arrangement of red roses, white Baby’s Breath, and lit crimson tapers were festooned atop the white brocade table cloth. Alicia half-expected a string quartet and a bottle of champagne hand-delivered by the house sommelier. She was surprisingly correct about the champagne, about which she shot Mycroft a pleased smile. He was a very generous man.

     The appearance of several, mutually selected hor dourves spurred on a second round of discussion concerning Sherlock. The floodgates had been opened. Tight lines of tension slowly smoothed around his eyes and mouth, and Mycroft's color improved. His easing demeanor spoke volumes to Alicia. She felt honored, intuiting his confidence in her opinion.  

    "So," Alicia asked, deftly spearing a bit of marinated artichoke on her fork, "How has your family been coping in the midst of all this?" She rotated the fork in the air three times as she spoke, before popping the tidbit between her lips. Mycroft actually stared into space, as if Alicia had magically gathered "all this" between the butter and the empty salad plate.

   "As you know, my family is very small. Sherlock and my parents are...well. You know about the..." Now he jabbed into the empty circle of air with a butter knife, " _other_ one. Euros. Sherlock and I have not had time to discuss her untimely appearance. John has stolen his focus." Mycroft grimaced as he swallowed a sip of champagne. "Believe me, I am not looking forward to  _that_ conversation. He is letting it lie dormant for the moment."

     "But your parents. Surely they have concerns regarding your brother's health?" Lady Smallwood was nothing if not tactful.

    "Yes, quite so. They came for a short visit. As you might expect, Sherlock was not on his best behavior. But, whenever is he? No. They flew into Heathrow, made sure he was breathing, and took their leave soon after. They have a... _difficult relationship_."

    Again, Mycroft grimaced. One could run out of polite synonyms in short order before resorting to less tasteful euphemisms for  _difficult relationship._ Such as "My brother is a tit." Or the ever popular "Sherlock is a gigantic twat, my parents will one day ascend up to heaven via express lift, whereby St. Peter will bestow upon them double martinis in light of their sacrifice."

   "Does he get along with anyone?" Alicia delicately tilted her head to the right with one eyebrow raised.

   "Well, yes! That is the entire problem in a nut shell." He blew out a garlic scented breath. Alicia privately wondered if she should have brought along her toothbrush.

    "John! John Watson is the only man that my brother has ever valued, trusted, and treated as a friend as an adult. I.." Here Mycroft paused, swirling his champagne glass to regroup, "I miscalculated the devastating effect Sherlock's disappearance would have on him. I didn't understand the depth of his affection toward my brother."

    The politician examined the contents of his champagne glass gravely for over a minute. He craved forgiveness for his error in judgement, yet was savvy enough to grasp that absolution was not forthcoming anytime soon.

   "You're speaking of when Sherlock faked his death in pursuit of Moriarty?" Alicia prompted gently. 

  Mycroft visibly collected himself, choosing to nod instead of speak. He cleared his throat. "Dear me. I find that I have misjudged my own sentiments regarding the doctor." He smiled wanly. "You see...well, you know. Sherlock has never been an easy companion. I should..."

     Mycroft lowered his chin to face Alicia eye-to-eye. "Sherlock was different from the time he was born. He didn't talk." He smirked. "I know that this is hard to believe, considering that now the man never shuts up." Alicia snorted and smirked in response.                                       

      "But there he was, almost four, and nary a word passed his lips. No 'Mama', or 'Dada', or any of the like. He would just sit and  _watch_ you. No one ever thought that he was simple, but...he was very odd. And of course, Euros kept my parent's focus aimed directly on her. She was jealous. And, frankly, Alicia, she was an extremely frightening child. It was in all of our best interests to keep track."

     A frisson of fear shot down Alicia’s spine. “I can only imagine the struggles that your parents went through with your siblings,” she admitted.

    "Yes. And, of course, being eight years older than Sherlock I found myself in the unenviable position of child minder. I kept him under my wing." Mycroft's face lightened as he recounted his childhood.

    "I taught him to read. Now, how can you believe that a child can read if he can't even speak? By testing him, of course. I wrote out detailed instructions about where I'd hidden sweets and the like. By golly, one peek at my notes and he'd be off in a tic to locate them."

    "So, you knew very early that he was intelligent," Alicia nodded.

    "Yes, absolutely. Obviously, I tried to indicate my concerns about his strangeness. I imaginel that my parents believed me jealous, or cruel. I sincerely wasn't. I spent hours observing how incredibly keen and observant he could be. We played problem-solving games together, and had the  _most_ fun. In fact, I hold myself personally responsible for nurturing his skills in deduction." A sweet smile lit Mycroft's face. 

     "Well, how did you two communicate from day to day if he refused to speak?" Alicia crinkled her nose in bemusement. Mycroft allowed himself a moment of distraction to admire his lover's appeal.

    The persona of "Member of Parliament, Lady Smallwood", had all but gone; and this charming, empathetic, and quite fetching woman had taken her place. In a public restaurant, of all places. Wonderful, the things that people shared when at ease.

    "I spoke or wrote messages to him, and he wrote his responses back to me. He was forever carrying around a little notebook and pencil. He was reading by two, and quite a proficient writer by four."

    Mycroft smiled cheerily in fond amusement. "And, so you see, my parents did recognize Sherlock's brilliance. However, they'd had quite enough of doctors and psychiatrists and the like with Euros already." Mycroft's smile withered with the remembrance. 

     "In their defense, my parents saw to Sherlock's strengths by providing stimulating reading and writing materials. The rest...they let him work out on his own."

     "My word!" Alicia exclaimed. "When did Sherlock finally start to speak?" 

     Mycroft sighed heavily. A shadow of despondency enveloped him, and Alicia instantly regretted the question. "My dear Mycroft, we don't have to continue this conversation. I am sorry that I have distressed you."

     "No, No! I wanted to share this little history lesson with you. First of all, because you are owed an explanation of the situation involving Euros as a security risk. Secondly, and to my mind an eminently more important reason, you are a very good listener. I find myself in the unusual position of desiring to speak of it. I believe you are a good influence upon me."

    Alicia flushed prettily. "Why, Mycroft, now I am in the unusual position of wondering if you long for my friendship as well as a place in my bed."

    It was Mycroft's turn to blush. "That is exactly what I have been hoping for, even if I didn't know it until this moment. Sherlock has invariably mocked me for my solitary disposition, believing me to be lonely."

    Mycroft tilted his head, eyes crinkling in amusement. "For once, I believe he was right. I crave your companionship, Alicia. I am besotted by your charms."

    Alicia reached across the table to squeeze his hand. "And you have it, my dear. I believe I crave yours as well. Now please," she released his hand and settled back into her chair, "Continue."

    "Well, you are aware of the history between Victor Trevor and my sister?" Mycroft queried.

    "Indeed, I've been apprised of the event," she nodded gravely.

    "Victor was the incentive my brother required to break his silence and communicate through speech. The child was exactly what my brother needed to sever his self-imposed barriers. Sherlock was freed from Euros' virulent grasp each time they stole away to play. And then," Mycroft paused both to compose himself and take a sip of water, "the tragedy happened. Victor disappeared, Euros implied that she was responsible, and Sherlock retreated even farther into himself."

    "Such a wretched event. And to think Euros was only five at the time." Alicia winced.

    "She is a monster. I wish she'd never been conceived by my parents. Her disastrous influence has scarred my brother in ways he does not even know." Mycroft scowled, once again the protective elder brother.    

     Mycroft paused as their entrees arrived. He picked up his fork, only to hold it mid-air as he continued his narrative. "When my Uncle Rudolph helped sequester Euros after her...episode...my parents treated it as if she never had existed, at least with Sherlock.

    They found that whilst struggling with my little sister, they had completely lost touch with their younger son. I don't think that he has ever forgiven them for that. I tried my best, you see. Nevertheless, a devoted older brother can never undo the damage caused by parental neglect, even if the neglect was unintentional."

     "No, indeed," Alicia agreed fervently. "And so, now in this circumstance, what - how did this current mess all come about, Mycroft?"

     Mycroft continued his narrative through dinner, pausing to eat by dint of habit. He was wrapping up the details of his brother's current situation whilst Alicia was downing the last sip of her aperitif.

    She put down her delicate glass and reached across the table to grasp his long hands in her own for he second time that evening. Her hands were warm, dry, and very, very comforting.

     "Mycroft," she began, squeezing his hands for emphasis, "you've been a good brother to Sherlock in mind and deed." Mycroft stiffened and instinctively began to pull his hands away. "No, now I'll do the talking." Alicia tugged at his fingers until he relented. "You listen to  _me_ now."

 Mycroft wiggled uncomfortably around in his chair in an unwitting imitation of a boy being dressed down in the headmaster's office. "The decision you made to keep Sherlock's continued existence confidential was made for valid reasons. John Watson is a doctor, not an actor. Moriarty's men would have quickly suspected a ruse, and all of your clever manipulations would be for naught." Alicia gazed into his eyes with intention. "Do you see?"

     "I could have tried..." he blustered miserably before she cut back in.

     "Mycroft Holmes. You of all people should know the complexities involved in dismantling Moriarty's legion of cohorts. Have you grown maudlin on me?" she snorted.

     "Good Lord, I hope not!" he exclaimed in genuine horror.

     "In addition, Rozaliya Mari Kukk was a wild card from the beginning. Norbury was as well. I find it extremely odd that Kukk settled into the part of London that placed her directly into John Watson's workplace, as well as Norbury's line of fire. That state of affairs should be examined very closely, but not tonight."

     "My point is, the series of events that put Sherlock in the position to by shot by Kukk were beyond anyone's control." Here, Alicia released Mycroft's hands and begin to number facts on her fingers, "So, one. After which, circumstances spiral into lunacy. Two. Sherlock paradoxically pushes John into reconciliation with Kukk. Three. Sherlock foolishly kills that beast Magnussen in front of a squadron of witnesses," Alicia paused to take a deep breath, "- not that Magnussen didn't wholeheartedly deserve it - however, a second reckless action performed in a bid to keep John happy and free from harm..."

     Alicia leaned in and lowered her voice, "Four, Sherlock forcing your hand to either throw him in prison or send him on a suicide mission; five, ironically manipulating the same set of facts to permit Sherlock to remain in Britain out of fear of Moriarty."

     Alicia raised her second hand to continue the count, whilst inhaling another deep breath, "Six, Sherlock deducing that Norbury was a traitorous bitch..ahem.. and seven, foolishly confronting her in that aquarium...and _then most importantly, Mycroft, eight._ Kukk throws herself in front of Norbury's bullet, therefore saving Sherlock's life, which...nine...spawns the estrangement between Watson and your brother. Ten, Kukk leaves behind a CD that incites Sherlock to poison himself with an incredibly lethal combination of illegal substances whilst handing himself over to that psychopath Smith's...and finally, finally, Mycroft..."

    Alicia gaped at her outstretched hands in disbelief, "John nearly kills himself out of grief. Christ, Mycroft, I've run out of fingers!"

    Alicia dropped her hands to the table and captured Mycroft with an intense stare. "You are perhaps the most powerful man in Britain. But Mycroft, you have never, and will never, be able to anticipate Sherlock's behavior. Nor can you control him. For Christ's sake, the whole situation sounds like one of those ridiculous murder-mystery shows the BBC insists upon airing!"

     Mycroft eyed her miserably, for once at a loss for words.

     "You've been a wonderful brother. You've done more for Sherlock that any other sane man would. My God, the repeating lapses in sobriety, the..."

    "Yes, I see your point, but..." As Alicia him cut off he drew back in his chair, open-mouthed and mute.

    "Mycroft Holmes!" she said sternly. "Although you like to play God, you are not he. You are a good man! Even if you are as egotistical, bull-headed, obnoxious, and self-congratulatory as your little brother. 

    Mycroft closed his mouth with an audible click of his teeth. "Seriously, Alicia, you cannot think to compare me with that childish, maniacal..."

    "Mycroft Holmes! Do you want to accompany me home for a long, dirty shag, or not?" Alicia laughed, slightly flushed. "Come on, love," she spoke with a throaty undertone, "let's go to my house and get naked. Enough of this distressing conversation."

    Within the space of two minutes, the bill was paid, the car brought about, and Mycroft was violating speed regulations with abandon.

 

 


	38. Awakenings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins to heal.

     _What is wrong with me? Dear God, make this stop. It hurts too much, I can't take it. Please._

    Sherlock rested awkwardly on the tiny cot supplied by the hospital. The lumpy, plastic-encased mattress crackled irritatingly each time he re-positioned himself. He had a choice of letting his feet dangle off the bed or risk tumbling off by folding his gangling limbs over it's stingy sides.

   The detective had not left John's room since being summoned to the hospital. Molly and Greg had popped by at odd intervals, offering their support, clean clothes, and the occasional box of takeaway.

    Mycroft had been in constant contact with the hospital staff, and texted Sherlock incessantly. To Sherlock's bemusement, he looked forward to these terse exchanges with his big brother.

    Mycroft was a officious prat, and his constant intrusion into Sherlock's affairs aggravated him to no end. Yet, Mycroft had been the only one to ever take time with him as a child. Sherlock felt comforted by Mycroft's stately oversight of John's care.

     John mumbled wearily in his raised-up hospital bed. Sherlock popped up like a jack-rabbit, instantaneously alert and on guard. He eyed John's wasted frame, limbs still wrapped snug in soft restraints.

    The last four days had been hellish for both men. John jerked restlessly, unconsciously fighting his confinement. He was sweaty and shivering, face ashen and drawn. 

     Sherlock stepped close and dabbed at the man's dripping brow with a flannel. John cried out and arched his back, provoking Sherlock to suffer a full-body flinch.

    John opened his eyes dazedly, his eyes unfocused as they swam around the drab room. Suddenly honing in on Sherlock, John's eyes focused on his and their eyes locked.

     "Sherlock." John whispered huskily. Sherlock scrambled forward, offering a plastic water decanter with a long, bendable straw. He gingerly slipped the straw between John's dry and cracked lips.

    Instinctively, John sucked, gulping down half the cup's contents in a matter of moments. Sherlock tugged the straw back out, allowing John time to catch his breath.

     "More." John tried to reach for the decanter. His hand stopped with a jolt, restrained a foot from the mattress. He grimaced and turned his body away from Sherlock as much as permitted, ashamed at his disgusting condition.

    "No, John," Sherlock protested quietly. "Here. Drink the rest, you need  to stay hydrated." He walked around the bed, not to be deterred. John had called for him. He would remain at John's side until John told him to go. Sherlock repeated his earlier movements and John finished the water.

    Tears sluiced down John's face as he shivered uncontrollably. Sherlock placed the cup on the table and pulled the heavy hospital blanket over his body. The detective tucked it in behind his quivering shoulders, and then kept his hands braced there. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Sherlock, for all that I've said. I can't bear it, please..."

     Sherlock's eyes watered, rendering their blue-green irises translucent in the artificial lighting. "Shush. John, Shush. It's alright. It's all going to be okay..."

    John's head swerved savagely across his pillow in a violent expression of disbelief. "No. I can't..." The little man's thrashings ceased abruptly, and his face flushed and twitched in spasmodic rage. "I need the patient's chart. That fucking attending changed my orders. She doesn't have a clue what she's doing."

    John lunged up, torso straining against the restraints. "I need to back to the exam room. Can't you hear him screaming? I'm ordering 40 mg chlordiazepoxide IM stat. Nurse, prepare his injection. That poor sap is suffering, can't you hear him? Why are you just standing there with your hands up your arse, you git? That's an order, corporal!!"

     Monitors beeped frantically as John's vitals became erratic. Sherlock unconsciously backed up against the wall, knowing that any second a slew of nursing staff was going to flood into the room.

    As predicted, in they came, two staff restraining his legs and a third lifting up his hospital johnny to empty an ironic dose of chlodiazepoxide into his upper thigh. "Eeeeaggh! You're poisoning me! Sherlock, why are you just standing there? Help me get these fuckers off me!"

    Sherlock pressed himself into the wall, biting his lip until it bled.  _Come back to me, John. I know you can do it. Stay strong._


	39. The First Circle of Hell

_I can't. do. this._

   John looked fixedly at the plain vanilla finish on the hospital wall. Sherlock read aloud from a leather-bound book on chemistry and forensics. The detective's voice was deep and gravelly. He sounded thirsty.

   The John Watson Sherlock knew would have put on the kettle to make a hot cuppa, nagging at Sherlock until he took a sip. This was not that John Watson.

    Seven days after being admitted, John was over the worst of withdrawal symptoms. The erratic bouts of psychosis had ceased, and the influx of fluids forced into his veins provided relief for John's maxed-out liver.

   Sherlock flipped the book shut, exhausted. John's body was safe from imminent collapse. His mind, however, was still under repair.

    "John? Can I get you something?" Sherlock sensed John's accelerating withdrawal from his world. It was if John had stepped onto a descending lift, slipping deeper down an endless mine shaft headed for oblivion.

    The little man curled motionless under the wrinkled sheets. His unwashed hair was clumped and matted from a week's worth of dripping sweat. John's face had regained some color, primarily due his stabilizing body chemistry.

     The doctor did not respond, eyes glazed, chest barely moving. Sherlock placed the book on the lilo and squatted at eye level with his friend. "John. Come back. You have to come back."

    Without changing his view, John grated out "Why?", vocal cords rusty from disuse. Sherlock reared back on his haunches, startled. John hadn't spoken in over a day, so Sherlock hadn't really expected an answer.

    Sherlock bit his lip, unsure of saying anything to make the man retreat back into himself now that he was responding.

    Thoughts racing, he ran through multiple scenarios, envisioning John's reaction in each one. He had little experience with this...emotion.  _I am the wrong person to do this. John needs someone who won't bungle things up and say something stupid._

Sherlock inched forward on the balls of his feet, dry tongue crossing the bite mark. He should start with the obvious. "Rosie needs you."

    John flipped over, shoving the mangled pillow over his face. "No!" he protested. "No she doesn't. She needs me to stay away!" 

     _Shit shit shit._   _Okay, a bit not good._ "I'm not going to argue the merits of your parenting skills with you, John. It...things are...bad. They're bad and I know you don't believe that anything will change for the better." Sherlock heard John breathing harshly, his lungs pumping like bellows.

     "Rrrrrah!" John gritted out from between his teeth. "You don't know, you don't know what she needs. You've never - I've failed her, Sherlock. I've hurt her and..." He tightened the hold on the pillow, forcing it flush over his face.

     "Stop that." Sherlock stood, wrestling with John until he was able to yank the pillow out of John's grasp. "That's enough." He glared fiercely down into John's reddened face. "Just - stop."

     "Sherlock." John elbowed himself backwards to brace his back against the headboard. He navigated into a sitting position.

    "I always thought...I always believed in myself. I trusted my gut, you understand? I fought through med school, survived getting shot, got kidnapped by that fucker Moriar..." John's face paled. Hands shaking, he reached up to grasp snarls of greasy hair in each hand. "I can't...I can't even look at you!"

     John tussled with the heavy hospital linens wound about his legs. "I'm not a good man, Sherlock!" His feet freed, John slipped off the mattress to stand, wobbly and weak. He lurched away from Sherlock into the far corner of the room. The little man's eyes were stricken, self-loathing clear in his demeanor.

     Sherlock held himself still, muscles tense in an agony of want. He was desperate to wrap John in his arms, to kiss him and love him and make him finally see how much Sherlock treasured him. But, this would not do, because John was awake. Touching John was not allowed.

    "I need to check out of here." John stated tersely.

    "What? That's ludicrous! Your condition is hardly stable, John." Sherlock spluttered.

    "I'm stable enough. I know where I am, what the date is, who the current prime minister is - can you say that you know that?" John pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock, who winced. "I'm not a danger to others..."

    "You are a danger to yourself!" Sherlock protested. "You know that you are."

    "Sherlock." John closed his eyes and exhaled loudly through his nose. John Watson, trying to collect himself. He blew out a mouthful of air and said blankly, "I need to get out of here. Too many doctors, too many questions, I can't take it anymore. I just want to go home."

     That's the last place you should be!" Sherlock asserted. "How much alcohol do you have stockpiled there? Do you even have food?" Sherlock could hear the panic rising in his voice. He had to stop John somehow.

     Hospital staff would argue their point but the law was the law. John was coherent and stable enough to discharge himself against doctor's advice. Christ knows, he had done it himself…how many times?

    John sighed heavily. Head drooping, he shuffled back to the bed and perched on one side of his hip. “Please. You have been so good to me. I don’t know why.”

   “You know why.” Sherlock launched forward, forgetting himself.

   “No, I don’t. Not now, at any rate." John's breath ran a staccato beat in the cramped space, reminding Sherlock of how ill John still remained. 

   "Nothing has changed, John." The detective said, voice low and strained.

   "Nothing? Nothing? Everything's changed, Sherlock! My..."

   "John!" Sherlock thundered. "Of course things have changed. That's not what I meant." It was his turn to exhale gustily. Sherlock focused on decreasing his volume. "I meant, I mean, that you are my friend. My best friend. That hasn't changed, and it never will."

  "Then you are a fool, Sherlock." Tears ran swiftly from John's swollen eyes. "Jesus. Jesus." He scrubbed a bandaged arm across his cheeks

   A male nurse popped his head in the doorway, fake smile plastered to his face. "Are we doing okay in here?" His cheery demeanor was offset by a six-foot, thickset frame. This was a nurse that got it done.

    A sturdy blonde female eyed John from behind the man's shoulder, coolly assessing  John's condition. Not approving of what she saw, she budged the lumbering male nurse aside and came in to run a set of vitals on her patient.

  She frowned at John's elevated B/P and pulse. John sat hunched on the bed, beads of sweat trickling down his temples. "Mr. Watson..." she started.

   "Dr. Watson." Sherlock corrected tetchily.

   The female nurse smiled apologetically. "Excuse me, Dr. Watson? I need you to lay back down and drink some fluids for me, if you can. And maybe have some dinner?"

    John accepted Sherlock's offer of the water decanter, but shook his head in response to the offer of a meal. Too much, too soon. He barely made it back to his pillow before his body refused to function.

    The nurse smoothed out his blankets and fussed about for several minutes more. Sherlock suspected that she found John's status untenable.

   At last, when John had swallowed 10 oz. of water from a straw, she left. Hand on the door, she shot a last warning glance at Sherlock, eyes squinted in disapproval. He got the message. _Keep my patient calm, or you are out. of. here._ Sherlock picked up the text book, and placidly took up his oration.

 

 

    


	40. Bye, Bye Baby Bunting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary reaches out to Rosie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ring-a-Ring o'Rosies  
> A Pocket full of Posies  
> "A-tishoo! A-tishoo!"  
> We all fall Down! - English nursery rhyme
> 
> Mary had a little lamb  
> Mary had a little lamb its fleece was white as snow;  
> And everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.  
> It followed her to school one day, which was against the rule;  
> It made the children laugh and play, to see a lamb at school.  
> And so the teacher turned it out, but still it lingered near,  
> And waited patiently about till Mary did appear.  
> "Why does the lamb love Mary so?" the eager children cry;  
> "Why, Mary loves the lamb, you know" the teacher did reply.  
> -English Nursery Rhyme

     Mary sat, entranced, as she scrutinized Rosie's life on-screen.  _My beautiful baby. My sweet, sweet Rosie._ She pored over each line and curve of Rosie's chubby body as she napped in her crib, noting her child's natural beauty with pride. Rosie had inherited her hair texture and John's deep blue eyes.  _Rosie._

_How could I have left you? what did I do when I jumped in front of that bullet?_

     Mary no longer knew what was right or wrong. Her sudden death had generated a domino effect of pain and suffering the lives of her friends and tiny family. But, who knew what future tragedies would have occurred if she had left Sherlock suffer the consequences of his folly?

      _I was so selfish. I **am**_ _so selfish. I gave John a perverted vision of our future together. I fucking shot Sherlock, for God's sake. How could I have even asked for forgiveness? And Rosie...so, so foolish to even conceive her. I should have placed her into John's hands and flown out of Britain as soon she was born for their own safety. Such hubris._

"But don't worry, my love. I love you, I love you, I love you. We wanted to have you, our beautiful baby girl." Mary whispered, gazing into her daughter's guileless face. Tears gushed down her cheeks in a river of regret. Rosie shifted gently, her footed yellow sleeper rustling on the daisy-print sheet. Mary touched a hand to her lips, wondering.

_My decisions...every life I've mercilessly mowed down without a second thought...every action has a consequence. Every evil I ever perpetrated came together at that one moment in time and aimed a kill shot directly at Sherlock. How could I **not** save his life?  If I hadn't taken that bullet he would have been one more notch on my belt. One more kill, even if I wasn't the one to pull the trigger.  **As if I hadn't tried once already!  
**_

_Damn it. Damn it, he tried so hard to keep that foolish vow. I have to tell him somehow, to make him see that he could never have kept it, because trouble was going to find me, one way or another. Trouble could have found John and Rosie, too. So, so selfish to seek a normal life._

_Who was I kidding._

    Mary sobbed, knowing that John had separated himself from their daughter due to his image of himself as a failed man. She wanted so badly to reach out and hold him close. She had to get through and make him see. All of this, every tear, every cry of pain had been generated by her choices.

     _I need to fix this. NOW. This is a waiting room._ Mary peered around the stony atmosphere. No movement, no sound, not even a speck of dust on the furniture. This place wasn't real, not in any physical sense, and she had no clue as to why she had been sequestered here and by who's action.

    The true horror of this was the knowledge that her time of influence was tenuous at best.  _This is a waiting room. What happens when the wait is over? Who is going to call my name?_

 


	41. Strange Currency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary answers some of Sherlock's questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." - William Shakespeare, Hamlet

Two months, sixteen days, and six hours after the death of Mary

 

      _The thing about being in hospital is that one expects to convalesce and the body to be set to rights. However, in Sherlock's vast and unpleasant experience, all evidence points to the contrary. How the bloody hell is a person supposed to recuperate if the nurses never shut up?_

     Sherlock flipped over on his cot, vexed with the loquacious night staff. Upon admission, John had been housed two rooms away from the nurse's station due to his altered state and fragile physical condition.

    Initially, the detective had found their proximity reassuring. John's health and corresponding mental status had wildly fluctuated for over five days. Their ever-present chatter had alleviated the all-consuming sense of emptiness that overtook him after each successive crisis.

    For the past week Sherlock spent hour upon hour with his long legs folded, squashed into the corner, tears streaming unnoticed from his eyes whilst watching his love suffer. John had been his cornerstone; John was still his rock.

    Sherlock had honed his skills of prevarication early, a strange child left to cope in an even stranger world. Later on, he'd finessed the ability out of necessity, as a struggling addict. But today, now, lying stiff and afraid in the corner, Sherlock accepted the truth. He loved this fierce little man and was petrified of losing him.

    John settled slowly into slumber shortly after sundown, lulled by Sherlock's scratchy baritone voice as he read. Sherlock's small library of books were their saving grace; the dense, dusty tomes gave the pair a point of contact without actually having to communicate. John had not asked for Sherlock to leave, but for the most part avoided eye contact or speech, nonetheless. The situation felt quite precarious.

     Flashing one last, nasty glower out the partially open door, Sherlock flipped the top sheet over his head in a futile attempt to gain some privacy. He settled his focus on John's soft, guttural breathing. His friend yielded an occasional, snuffly, snoring sigh; Sherlock commenced to categorize them into "snorts" or "sighs".

    He seriously considered adding the subcategories of lip smacking and vehement sniffs as the night deepened. It was only after John's sixteenth snort (the fifth snort accompanied by a smacking of his lips) that Sherlock slipped into his own state of deep sleep.

   It was just past midnight when the detective was given a dream.

                                              *********

      _Sherlock strolls among the stalls at the marketplace. He turns the corner and walks headlong into the dry, stale wind blowing in from the east. He pauses to readjust his white kaffiyeh, hindering the wind's efforts to snatch it off his head._

_Two men argue bitterly over the price of lamb in the shade of a tent. The merciless mid-day sun beats down on his head as he struggles to translate their Arabic. Sherlock openly guffaws as one man gestures violently, straight into the other man's face. It is too hot for such antipathy._

    _Circumventing_   _the ridiculous commotion, he continues onward. Sherlock feels his belly rumble, so he pauses to buy a lamb kebab. Oily liquid spills out from the edge of the pita bread, so he tilts the food away his dishdasha to rip off hunks of meat and bread. Sherlock has an appointment to keep and desires to remain presentable._

    _"Holmes!" someone calls from the edge of the marketplace. He squints through the bright sun at the small figure in hijab. Damn._

_Sherlock shoves the remaining bits of food into his maw and swallows roughly. He cannot eat in the presence of this woman for her own safety. He surreptitiously saunters over to the figure in flapping, black dress._

_Is this his contact? He believes that it is, although he finds it irresponsible to have set up an appointment with an unaccompanied female in such public place. Could be dangerous. All of Iraq is presumed unstable at the_ _moment._

_The contact turns away, weaving amidst busy shoppers and begging children. Sherlock trails her from a safe distance. Sharia law, now reestablished in Samarra, heightens his sense of caution._

_Isis controls the entirety of the Ninevah Province. It was chancy to rendezvous in enemy territory; her information must have necessitated the risk._

_She executes an nimble about face and disappears into a squat building on her left. Sherlock surreptitiously confirms that his Glock 17, prodigiously fitted with the latest MI6 silencer, is in easy reach in his side holster. He cautiously scopes out the doorway. Safe enough for a entry, posthaste. He isn't as confident of the exits._

_Sherlock is inexplicably besieged with a sense of déjà vu in the plain living area. A low table with a deck of playing cards occupies it's center. The woman appears from behind a wooden screen and doffs her head wrap with a flourish. It is Mary._

_Mary Watson. Sherlock mouths falls slack, uncomprehending._

_Mary Watson is dead. She died in an aquarium in London to save his foolish life. How has she ended up here?_

_"Sherlock, my friend." Mary eyes him in a frenzy of guilt. "You look terrible."_

_"I've been better," the detective confesses. "You look...well, considering you are..." he clears his throat awkwardly, "deceased."_

_"Thanks, I guess." Mary tears up, chin trembling. "Please, won't you sit? I've come a long way, as have you. We should rest up while we can."_

_Sherlock eases down on a pillow at the table. A small platter of figs catches his eye. He selects a plump one, stem still attached, and fingers it absentmindedly. The detective has lost his appetite._

_"Why are you here, Mary? Are you sending me on a second mission?" Sherlock twists the fig's stem 'til it pulls away, taking a bit of flesh with it. "I am afraid I have failed you. You may want to ask someone else."_

_Mary drops down opposite of him, hands slapping the table top for emphasis. "Damn it, Sherlock! I don't know how much time I've been given, so I am going to say this quickly. Will you listen? I need you to hear me, Sherlock! Take what I say as the truth. It's important, no, incredibly necessary that you accept it."  She swallows in misery, forcing the tears to cease by dint of will. "You must accept what I say."_

_Sherlock's eyes touch her face briefly. "I broke my vow, Mary. Nothing more needs to be said."_

_"You arrogant sod! Do you really think that you could erase my past, just by wanting it?" Mary scrubs at her face, digging fingers into her eyes. Sherlock startles, and forcefully pulls at her arms. He peers into her eyes this time, shocked by her indignation._

_"Yes! Yes, I did!" he shouts._

_"Why? And why did you want to? For fuck's sake, Sherlock, I shot you and left you bleeding out on the floor! I left it to you to clean up after Magnussen! I watched you depart on a plane and forced into exile! I drugged you! I tricked you! You may be 'The Great Sherlock Holmes', but you are flesh and blood like the rest of us and I don't understand any of what you did._

_Well. I'm no longer flesh and blood, sorry for the oversight on my part." Mary twists her mouth upward without an ounce of humor, a tragic parody of a smile. Her voice comes out diminished, all her energy expended. "Why did you keep at it, my dear?"_

_Sherlock throws the fig at the wall, where it slaps wetly and plops to the floor. " Damn it! Mary, I..."_

_"I was an assassin, Sherlock. For years and years and years. After the mess at Tbilisi, I thought I'd found a way to escape. My team was lost and I was alone. I was **so stupid** to think I could leave it behind me. Nothing can erase my crimes." Mary bows her head to her chest out of shame._

_Sherlock inhales as if to speak, and allows his breath to seep back from his lungs like air from a squeaky balloon. For once in his life, he is speechless. His world has shrunk down to this room, to this moment in time. Sherlock writhes, desperately helpless and sad._

_"So. This is what I came here to ask...in this awful, dirty place. I want, shit...I want to know **why** you felt compelled to uphold your vow. I want to know everything, Sherlock, about what you did, what you though, what you think now - and then," Mary looks back into his eyes, "I want you to know that I used you." She outwardly trembles. "Sherlock, and once you have told me the truth, then I have something more important to say."_

 

 


	42. The Value of Strange Currency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary's POV while sending Sherlock a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, just a continuation of the last chapter. It was 2:30 am when I finished writing it and I was ready to do some of my own dreaming!

_"There is no way in hell that I am giving you some ridiculously detailed explanation for why I intervened on your behalf. Is it not enough that I did?" Sherlock huffs._

_"No, Sherlock, obviously it isn't enough. I really need to understand your motives." Mary whacks the table top in frustration._

_"I can't explain, and you need to stop asking me to." Sherlock splutters._

_"Why not?" Mary shoots back, undeterred. "The time for lies is over."_

_Sherlock stands up and darts away from the table. "I just can't. I never could. Stop nagging me, woman."_

_Mary springs up and follows him, looking up fixedly into his eyes."Be brave. You **are** brave. You are the most stubborn, bull-headed, moron of a genius I've even met, and half the time I want to punch you in the face." Mary smirks. "But, you are also the bravest."_

_"Why?" Sherlock groans in misery. "Why is it so important for you to know? It is what it is."_

_"No, it isn't. I turned the tables on you, Sherlock, so pay attention._ _I_ _saved your life for a very specific reason, and if you can't get your bloody thick head out of your arse and accept the reality of your feelings my death will have been for naught!"_

_Sherlock clenches his teeth. "Fine. Fine." He clears his throat and looks down, fidgeting with his robe."Fine! When I went after Moriarty's legion of criminals I had to fake my death. Old news. It was for John's safety, blah blah blah._

_When I came back...I was confused. He was so angry, but worse, he was hurt. He had suffered. I didn't foresee this. I never imagined that his feelings ran so deep." He bites his lip pensively. "You...were also a surprise."_

_"And?" Mary prompts, pleased that she has goaded him into talking._

_"You took him in. You helped him. Of course I had to protect you! John chose you. John chose you." Sherlock closes his eyes. "He wanted **you**. And I want what John wants...always."_

_"And why do you always want what John wants, Sherlock?" Mary says softly. "Tell me why."_

_"He deserves to be happy."_

_Mary says nothing, letting Sherlock do this in his own time._

_"He is good, and kind, and my friend..." Sherlock drags a fig-sticky palm over his brow to clean it of sweat. "And, I love him as I have never loved anyone else in my life. I will never stop loving him, and I will never stop doing whatever it takes to make him happy."_

_Mary waits._

_"I ruined any chance I ever had when I lied. Our time was over. It was your turn. There. Are you happy, now that I have humiliated myself?"_

_Mary reels him in, hugging him so tight he can't breath. "Oh, Sherlock. Thank you. Thank you for trusting me with this. You arse! Love isn't a bad thing, you git! It's bloody brilliant in this case!"_

_Mary steps back to grin up at him. "I knew, you know. John kept his own council, but all I had to do was look in his eyes and see for myself. It broke my heart."_ _Sherlock struggles for freedom. Dead or not, Mary is strong, and he is caught like a fish in a net. "Stand still, you berk, and let me hug you."_

_Sherlock freezes, awkward as an spotty adolescent. "So, now that I have debased myself...what. I wake up?"_

_"No! Christ, stop whinging. Now you are going to join me at the table, eat a bloody fig, and listen to what I have to tell you. Then you wake up."_

_Mary forces him bodily to the table by yanking him along by his dishdasha. Mary shines, a sweet smile running across her face. "Sherlock, my love, I am happy for the first time in, well, in a very long time."_

_Sherlock squints into her face, and then rubs his eyes. "You are ever mercurial, Mary. How like a woman."_

_"Shut up and sit. This isn't going to be easy for me to say, and it's going to be even harder for you to accept." As he maneuvers his lanky frame down atop the cushion, she thrusts a fig under his nose and imperiously demands, "Eat!" Sherlock meekly takes the fig and removes its stem, dropping it to the floor._

_"Erm. First and foremost." Mary's demeanor slips back into one of gloom. Her pale hands fist together, tight tight tight. "I grew up selfish, Sherlock. I had to. I told you the truth when I said I was orphaned. As the story goes, I ran into the wrong crowd. I found I had a natural...skill set. A special temperament. And the rest is history._

_I was put in touch with people who knew 'people.' Eventually, A.G.R.A. was formed. Any hope I ever had of a normal life was fundamentally demolished, not that I expected one." Mary's eyes drop to her hands as she clasps them together._

_"I had hopes, I guess. Every girl dreams of getting married and having a family, even if she is an assassin," she sighs and rolls her eyes. "After the colossal cock-up of Tbilisi, I saw a way out, and I took it. I met John...and I took him, too."_

_Mary's eyes flick up to Sherlock's. "He was easy to take. John is such a good man, and he was so very alone. Ripe for the picking. I imagined our whole lives together, doctor and nurse, husband and wife. Two-point-five kids and a dog, retiring in the country and raising rabbits!"_

_Mary jabs fingers at her crinkled forehead and closes her eyes. "Right here, Sherlock. I could see it, right here!" A tear trickles out under black eyelashes. "And once I met him, I wanted to keep him all to myself. He was perfect."_

_"Yes," Sherlock nods gently, "he is."_

_"I fell in love with him, Sherlock. I really did, it wasn't an act. Maybe I didn't have feelings for him at the beginning, not right away, but," Mary shrugged helplessly, "he made me better. He made me human. His humanity taught me how to love."_

_They lock eyes. "_ _Me, too." Sherlock tilts his head, pondering. "I was less than a man, I think, when John came into my life. He called me a machine, once. He wasn't far wrong. I'd put all of my feelings aside as a child. They'd never served me very well, you see."_

_Sherlock palms the fig wanly. "And then, he waltzed into my life and filled a gap that I wasn't even aware existed. I fell in love." A pained smile flits across his lips. "I didn't even know I - that I could love, until I met him."_

_"Sherlock, my friend," Mary squeezes his hand, "It's time to get down to business. I fear my reprieve is almost over. I have to put things to right, and quickly."_

_"Put what to rights?" Sherlock's brows furrows, forming a tiny ridge of skin across the bridge of his nose. "What reprieve?"_

_"Never mind that. This is the moment where you listen to what I say and don't argue. You've had to pay for the decisions I made, and I can't even begin to explain how that makes me feel. I should have never attempted to settle down. I made too many enemies with very long memories. I knew I was living on borrowed time with John, but when he proposed I couldn't say no."_

_"He is very persuasive," Sherlock avers, under his breath._

_"And, Rosie was a mistake. A wonderful one, but a child is a liability for anyone on the run."_

_Sherlock frowns. He doesn't accept this. He doesn't want to hear these words come out of Mary's mouth. Rosie is no error in judgement. She is beautiful. She is John's child, and hence infinitely perfect._

_Mary ignores his disconcerted expression and forges on. "Rosie's very existence creates a point of weakness that my enemies could exploit. If that bastard Magnussen used John as my pressure point, imagine what some..."_

    _"No! Let's not, shall we?" Sherlock shoots back, disbelief flaring up inside at how callously she is referring to her child. "If you were anticipating further attacks, why didn't you take measures to prevent them? Why didn't you share this information with John?"_

_"You already know the answer to that. John wouldn't...I was afraid he would leave and I thought I.." Mary dithers._

_Sherlock cuts across her excuses, any signs of discomfiture in virtue of self-disclosure instantly eradicated by Mary's words. "So you put your family in an extreme risk of danger because you wanted to play Betty Homemaker?"_

_"Yes! Alright, yes. That is what I came here to tell you. This **,"**_ _Mary circles her hands in the air, "_ _my motives, my actions, were - "_

_"What?" Sherlock snaps. Why does he have the sinking feeling that he has been thoughtlessly manipulated?_

_Mary is too mortified to disclose her avarice. In addition, the notion of her time clock running down prompts Mary to release the inner crazy, for so long tamped deep into the inner depths of her soul._

_"Shut. Up. And listen. I didn't save your life for you, okay, you arsehole? I did it for John. Sooner or later, someone was going to end up on the slab. You can't shut your trap to save your life. Literally. You were asking for it!"_

_Something subtly drains away from the face of the person Sherlock has known as Mary. The light in her eyes is changing. This woman radiates a sense of menace, and triggers a frisson of horror down Sherlock's spine._

_"But, if you died **again** , and then if I was killed at some later point, John's life would be over. It was a tactical move on my part, Sherlock." _

_All softness now erased, a cold-eyed assassin faces the detective from the other side of the table. "That's all." Sherlock shudders at the truth of who Mary is when stripped of her humanity. "He has to stay alive and well, because I love him, Sherlock. That's all that matters now."_

_For once, Sherlock has nothing to say. Is this who this woman is, really, or is Mary the affectionate and humorous person that she presented herself to be? As he has expressed once upon a time, in very different circumstances, the pattern is too nebulous._

_Her altered persona doesn't track with what he has observed of her when she lived. Has he been misled in the past, or is he being misled now, in this dream?_

_"So, Sherlock, you are going to wake up soon. When you do, remember why you still have a pulse. You love him, he loves you, and you both love Rosie. It's time you stopped hiding the truth and admit it. For him. For her. Go!" Mary's voice is commanding, and he has no choice but to obey._

Sherlock woke up with a jolt.

         


	43. Respite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary takes a breather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would not wish  
> Any companion in the world but you.  
> (The Tempest 3.1.60-1), William Shakespeare

     Mary wrenches herself out of Sherlock's consciousness. Panting in exhaustion, she blots the perspiration from her temples. A profound self-loathing wells up. If she was still alive she would vomit. Nevertheless, her task is incomplete. Mary always completes a mission.

     Ruminating on which paths to travel, she decides to pop in on Rosie for a respite. Rosie has been a joy to watch, a plump little package of sweetness and light. The infant obviously inherited John's personality. 

     Mary also gets the sense that Rosie is aware of her in a way that the men may not been, perhaps because she is so young. Mary doesn't know, and she doesn't care.

    As Molly reaches down to change Rosie's nappy, Mary hones in and sings in her native tongue. Rosie lights up, kicking up her heels and gurgling in pleasure. Molly grins and blushes with love. For this second in time, life is perfect.


	44. Onward, Ho!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary forges on and speaks with John.

     Sherlock hurled himself upward, gasping.  _Well, I asked Mary for answers. Dreams, hallucinations, what? Was that real or am I simply cracked?_

Peering through the dim light at the wall clock, he calculated that he had been asleep for less than two hours.  _Thanks, Mary, for sending me such a lovely and restful dream. Your efforts are much appreciated. Look, I finally understand how to employ sarcasm. Aren't you proud of John? He is an excellent interpreter of social conventions, and a prolific purveyor of irony._

Gingerly slipping off the bed to avoid as much obnoxious mattress crackling as possible, he padded barefoot to the toilet for a wee. He eased the door closed and flipped on the light, flinching in pain.     

 _Jesus, that's bright._ He considered his reflection somberly in the harsh and unforgiving glow. For the first time in his life, he felt old. His eyes were ringed with saggy, grey tissue. Frown lines cut the corners of his mouth. His normally insouciant locks of hair lay dank and drab against his scalp. Even his eyes lacked their natural, unearthly luminescence.

  _Old. I am old. I am running out of time._

     Sherlock had little memory of the worst moments of his recent drug use, but he imagined that the physical effects had been much the same. _I wish I was high right now._    

    Sherlock swung a hand upward and delivered a sharp slap to his cheek. _Shut it, fool! No I don't. Never again. Never again, for my love._   _And Rosie._ It was apparent that the hospital stay had drained his energy reserves, but he would not leave until John was discharged or with the caveat of John's request. He desperately hoped John would not ask.

     Sherlock rinsed his face in lukewarm water and reached under the tap for a metallic mouthful to wet his tongue.  _Blech! When was the last time I cleaned my teeth? I can't even remember._ His lanky figure loped to retrieve his manky toothbrush and paste from the overnight bag when he froze.

     John was writhing on the bed, his face the epitome of angst.  _Yes, that's what he needs. More angst in his life. Even sleep offers no respite._ He was hesitant to wake up his friend, even so. Disrupting John from a nightmare had varying results in the past, and they weren't always the most favorable.

    He shoved the toiletries in his dressing gown pocket and stood sentry at the foot of the bed. He was curious as to what horrible thing John was being subjected to. He wondered if Mary had hopped into his friend's sleeping self for a bit of a chat. Sherlock propped a hip over the hospital bed, long legs touching the lino, and settled in for the long haul.

     


	45. Nightmare on Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's dream with Mary. Sorry, it got kind of angsty really quick. Go figure. These are the things I would tell myself if I was in John's position. 
> 
> From now on, it is all about healing and moving on. John's dream is the catalyst for the boys' relationship to move on to the next level. Finally, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, my American friends, the title is cheesy. Enjoy.

      _John sits in his chair at 221B Baker St. Mary fidgets in the client chair. It satisfies him somehow to know just how stiff and unforgiving it is, and precisely how uncomfortable she looks. "Hmm. That chair is just like me." John mutters under his breath, eyeing his dead wife from below furrowed brows. "A complete pain in the arse."_

_He is so furious, and flustered, and outraged, and flabbergasted by Mary's duplicity that his teeth grate sandpaper-rough against one another. They audibly rasp, like nails on a chalkboard._

_His wife's eyes widen as she locates the source of the sound, and John's mouth folds into a derisive sneer. Good. Let Mary see the fucking state of misery that he is in. His dream, his rules._

_"John," Mary forces out, and then flounders._

_"Mary. Do you have something to say? " John tilts his head with slight mocking smile of amusement. "You best say it quick, because this cliff you've shoved me off runs straight down to Hell, and I'm falling fast."_

_John stares at her, dead-eyed. In this last week alone, he's vacillated from guilt-ridden, to vengeful, to completely devoid of emotion. John is utterly exhausted, and very much out of control._

_This woman has lied...no, not just that, she's ripped a hole in his heart. A Sherlock-shaped hole. She took her own life and she almost stole his._

_Sherlock may have sugar-coated Mary's actions a wee bit when he'd characterized the placement of his bullet wound as surgery. No. He'd performed surgery in sterile operating rooms and on the battle field for ten years before his shoulder injury._

_John knows what surgery is, and what it is not. Mary'd aimed with lethal intent. It was just her rotten luck that Sherlock was too stubborn a bastard to die._

_"I thought I'd forgiven you, Mary. I really did. But there was this little 'something' always niggling in the back of my mind. You shot my friend, **you shot my** **best** **friend** , and left him bleeding out on the floor next to that fucker Magnussen." John gives her his angry smile, the one where his eyes flash with unholy light and his teeth gnash, ready to bite. _

_"You're so angry, John." Mary's lips press tight over her quivering chin. His rage is unexpected._

_"How very observant, wife. Very good." John nods deep into his chest in mock scholarly approval. "You were always able to read my emotions. I suppose that little trick is something you picked up along the way as you were killing people for money."_

_"Darling, I..." her voice catches in her throat. "I don't understand. I thought we were past all this."_

_"So did I, Mary. Well, perhaps I was at one point. I meant what I said at Christmas, but the sentiment just didn't stick. Every once in a while, I'd catch an expression on your face that wasn't quite," he touches his chest, " 'My Mary.' And it want me to vomit, you know that?"_

_"You lied to me from the very first day, when you gave me your name. You lied about your past, and then you lied about Sherlock. And after all that bullshit you dared to hold our precious baby daughter with the same two hands that murdered people in cold blood." John raises his hands, looking ill._

_"I haven't changed, John. I'm still the person you married, and you chose me for a reason. Like Sherlock said." Mary maintains. "You are drawn to danger."_

_"I might be an adrenaline junkie, Mary, and it's true that Sherlock is a complete moron when it comes to seeking out danger, but you two have very different skill sets. Sherlock solves crimes. You...ahhh," John see-saws his hand in the air, "do not." He shifts to the edge of the chair, elbows on thighs. "How could I trust you with anything after shooting Sherlock!"_

_"John, we fell in love. You asked me out not two weeks after I started work at the surgery. You flirted first, not me. Trust in your judgement, if you don't trust in mine."_

_"Well, see, that's the problem. I did choose you, and I want to know why. I'm not sure anymore of my motives, or who I even am as a person. It ate me alive, and you knew that, didn't you?  Once I'd found your true calling? Couldn't you tell that it_ _still broke my heart?"_

_"I didn't know any such thing. I am sorry that I didn't see it. I really am. But what would you have me do? We'd started a family, for God's sake!"_

_“I don’t know!” John shouts in aggravation. But at some point, I knew that I’d married a stranger. And God, God! You want to know the worst of it, Mary? Do you want to see what type of person I turned out to be? It turns out that I'm a liar, too! I just wasn’t aware of it until I met you. Does that make me oblivious, or just stupid?”_

_“John. Please stop.” Mary has shrunk into the spare and unforgiving seat cushion, resembling not so much a mercenary-slash-mother-slash-intelligence agent as a little girl on the receiving end of a scolding._

_Her face registers bewildered pain. John’s mind is a much more tenuous place than she imagined. She’d controlled most of the variables in Sherlock’s dream. Here, Mary is untethered, adrift without a paddle. “This isn't your fault."_

_"No, it's not. But so what? I'm not a good man," he seethes in self-disgust. "I was never the man you wanted me to be, and I'm certainly a piss-poor example of a father."_

_"John, just what the hell are you talking about?" She feels out of her depth. Mary had come to shower him to with love and support, not to mention grant forgiveness for repeatedly texting that red-headed tart._

_"Do I really have to lay it out for you, Mary? I wanted to believe this would work because I was weak! I'm incapable of being alone, when it comes down to it. So I took you back." John launches bodily from his chair and kicks it. "Round and round it goes. When you ran to keep us away from A.J.'s revenge plot, what did I do? I brought you right back into danger."_

_"John!" Mary wails._

_"Do you see? Do you get it? Like an idiot, I led the danger right back to Rosie, too! And...I...let...Sherlock...take the heat for protecting us. It was my fucking job, Mary! Not his! I was in the bloody military, for Christ's sake! He's a fucking chemist!"_

_"John.." So much hatred and misery. She can't bear it._

_“Our  relationship was built out of so many lies, Mary, but I can honestly say that I love you, I really do. You brought me back to life after Sherlock when I…well, you know what I was going through, you were there._

_Are you aware that you're the second person who needed to save me from myself?" He flaps a hand between them. "You're funny, and sweet, and bloody intelligent. Did you also have to be an assassin for hire?"_

_Like a fuse blowing out, John's anger flares wildly, then shriveling down into nothing. A black cloud of despair engulfs him. What is he doing? What is he saying?_

_"What's wrong with me?" He growls. John's thought processes shift, all a-kilter. They turn 180 degrees in a heartbeat. "Jesus!" He paces behind his chair, frantically chewing his bottom lip. "This is only my fault. Why am I blaming you?"_

_Mary stares at him, speechless. This is not the man that she married._

_"I’m not the man you thought you married. All those…” He sets both hands to flapping. “Those things you told me whilst you were bleeding out on that fucking aquarium floor. How you talked, about our marriage and I…I so stupidity sat there, and Sherlock was... I brought you back to London, Mary. I am the reason you died!"_

_She simply can't keep up._

_John drops, slamming his face into the floor again and again and again._

He woke up, screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh. I think I maybe need to up my Effexor after writing this. Sorry again for the "heavy".


	46. The Squirrel Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock opens up and shares his true feelings.

    John's unearthly screaming sent shards of glass winging into Sherlock's heart. Ignoring the invisible barriers John had put up the detective scrambled atop the mattress and gripped his frail friend with long, slender fingers. 

     "Sherlo...Sherlo...my wife. She was talking to me. She was here, I swear it!" John scanned the room frantically, searching for her sturdy figure. "No, wait, where am I? This isn't Baker Street!" He pulled back from Sherlock's torso to peer in his eyes. "What's going on?"

       With surgical precision, pun intended, two of the heftier nurses strode into the room, hackles raised. Anticipating their arrival, Sherlock eyes flashed menacingly towards their concerned faces and he spoke rapidly. "My friend John here has just had a bad dream. He is alright. We were talking about it, and if you please stop this rude interruption," he stated imperiously, "we can continue to do so in privacy."

     Sherlock angled his face away from John's view and spoke as clearly as he knew how with only facial expressions... **Get the hell out, you morons, John is actually speaking to me and your untimely interruption may cause him to change his mind. Thank you. Please. Please. Thank you.**

Both nurses paused, indecisive. Twenty seconds of silence passed, only broken by the intermittent gasps John expelled whilst attempting to catch his breath.

    In unison, the women nodded without speaking and retreated. The taller nurse, a kindly but formidable woman in her thirties, shot Sherlock a surreptitious smile of encouragement and hope. Sherlock spared no more thought to them, and gazed into his best friend's wan face.

    "John, do you remember where you are?" Sherlock inquired as in as calm a voice as he could muster.

    "No! No!" The doctor peered into Sherlock's pale eyes, seeking answer.

     The detective opened his mouth, reasoning that it was a realistic question on John's part, considering that he'd woken up from a nightmare. John searched his face, seeking answers. Finding none, he glanced down at himself and then froze.

     "Yes." John stated flatly. "I am in hospital." 

      "Good. Right." Sherlock squeezed John's shoulders encouragingly.

      "And, yes. I know why I am here." John said with zero affect.

     "Good. Right." Sherlock said, with slightly less enthusiasm. 

     The little man's face screwed up in misery and he launched within the comforting warmth of Sherlock's chest. His head tucked into the crook of Sherlock's neck, rendering it soggy and somewhat slimy. The normally fastidious detective did not mind in the slightest, and he tightened his grip, enfolding John into his arms.

     Sherlock instinctively rocked their entwined bodies, soothing John by humming his favorite violin concertos. It felt timeless. Their existence had shrunk down to this exact moment, in this room, in this bed. Nothing else mattered.

    Sherlock kissed John's hair, burrowing into its greasy depths with unabashed affection. The time for timidity was past, and he refused to disguise the love he harbored anymore. Nevermore.

     "John," Sherlock whispered, throwing caution to the wind, "it's time you forgive yourself for not being perfect. It is time for you to move on." He gently drew the little man from his body, and kissed him softly on his cheek. "I love you, John...I love you. I am pulling you out of the squirrel cage you've locked yourself into, and then we're going to go home." 

      


	47. What Comes Next

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes...home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; With them forgive yourself." - William Shakespeare

      John's  months of grieving presented themselves in a troublesome and tangible way.  Physically, he was malnourished, underweight, and in pain from an impending ulcer.

    His typically striking silver-blond hair was shapeless and dull, despite John having spent close to an hour scouring the grunge from his frame in the hospital shower. The little man's posture was reminiscent  of an arthritic octogenarian, the cursed right leg limp back in all its wretched glory.

    But, the definitive schism for this fragile, dispirited man from his original status was the inanimate flatness of his eyes. 

    After the ravages of the preceding night's nightmare, John had neither the energy or the will to disengage from Sherlock's gentle grasp. He'd curled himself into Sherlock's lanky frame like a man wrapping himself in a blanket.

    For Sherlock's part, divulging his love felt exhilarating and horrifying in turns. His sentiments had been aired, and time's linear passage moved relentlessly onward. There was no turning back now.

   Sherlock was a person who defied simple definition. From an outsider's perspective, he was an arrogant arse with an exceptional brain. He was obnoxious, annoying, egomaniacal, and vain. He was cold, selfish, thoughtless, and crude.

    Sherlock was a man whose undeniable physical beauty did not pair well with his stunted socialization skills. From an outsider's perspective, it was unclear why a man like Sherlock had any friends at all, let alone garner the attentions of a very conscientious and good-hearted man like Dr. John Watson. It was unclear, indeed.

     From Dr. John Watson's perspective, Sherlock's words were preposterous. He knew the faithful, honorable, and true Sherlock Holmes. He belatedly understand Sherlock's intentions for the last three years. Sherlock was kind. He was selfless. He was the most human human being John had ever known.

     Having known that, John had sorely mistreated and abused his best friend, and he certainly wasn't doing Sherlock any favors by asking him to clean up his dirty mess now. 

    Also, the concept of any long-standing affections on Sherlock's part was inconceivable, dare he say, ridiculous. His friend had never so much as fluttered his lashes or brewed him a cuppa before Reichenbach.

    Even remembering this, however, the verbal expression of sentiment had soothed John's spirit. It was like believing in Santa. Kris Kringle might not be real, but the concept of him was nice. 

     Nevertheless.

    Any forward movement in John's healing must begin with a return to civilization (or, central London, take your pick). John's discharge, rather anti-climatic after the insanity of the prior week, took place eight days after being brought in via ambulance.

   The release information was extensive, and John found that the folder and string-handled plastic bag strained to contain the copious reams of discharge paperwork. He received a script for Ondansetron, a folic acid/thiamine supplement, Omaprazole, Melatonin, and a listing of NHS therapists. This specific piece of paper went straight in the bin.

   John unequivocally and vehemently resisted any attempts to be paired with a new therapist, despite the hospital's protestations.

    Sherlock adamantly prevailed on the staff to let the matter drop, for obvious reasons. He even said please, thereby shocking the attending into a state of mute consternation for over 30 seconds.

    Upon some rather unnecessary paper shuffling, the hospital staff removed the offensive listing of therapists, provided that John signed the wordy legalese forms stating that he was acting against doctor advice.

    The most difficult moment came when the mens' taxi pulled up to the hospital doors and the address for the flat for Baker street was given. 

 _Round and round and round it goes, where I stop, nobody knows._ John peered bleakly down at the bag in his lap, vaguely considering the ecological disaster due to printing out Sherlock's hospital paperwork. The reams of discharge forms from Sherlock's last hospitalization alone could alone have stripped the Brazilian Rainforest.

    Greg and Molly had smoothed the widower's transition from House Watson to the old, rumpled flat share on Baker St. They had collected his toiletries, and packed up his clothes. Molly grabbed all of Rosie's toys, but left her clothes behind. John's daughter had already outgrown them.

     Mycroft, in typical bossy-big-brother fashion, arranged for the house to be stripped of garbage/possible bio-hazard material and virtually sterilized. Per usual, he was handling the monthly payments, along with providing for extended utility service. John couldn't find it in himself to acknowledge these niceties. It was too close to admitting that he was unable to make do independently.

    The taxi pulled alongside the kerb next to Speedy's a bit past four pm. Early spring sunlight cast milky light across the huge black door of Mrs. Hudson's property.

    Sherlock shot a quick look in John's direction. John had remained folded into himself for the length of the trip, barely moving to breathe. Sherlock feared that John might regret and refuse this arrangement, now that it was in place. He could only hope that John would stay.

   


	48. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at Baker St.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What wound did ever heal but by degrees?”  
> ― William Shakespeare
> 
> “But pain's like water. It finds a way to push through any seal. There's no way to stop it. Sometimes you have to let yourself sink inside of it before you can learn how to swim to the surface.”  
> ― Katie Kacvinsky

     221B Baker St. Glossy black door, obsessively tilted bronze knocker. Bullet holes though the smiley face. Acid burns in the lino. Faint odor of tobacco and formaldehyde. Knife in the mantle...next to the skull. 

     Home.

     Or, as close to a home as he was ever going to have.

     John wearily extracted himself from the back of the taxi, and stood unmoving on the pavement gazing out at the street. Swiftly paying the fare, Sherlock swept from the back seat and turned to look at his friend. John was home.

   Their eyes met in silence, whilst they wordlessly contemplated the paths yet untaken. The ambiguity of the situation was a bit not good. Sherlock stepped up to the pavement and they entered the building as one.

    Sherlock unlocked the door first, noticing the chill. He bumped up the thermostat and made his way to the kitchen. "Tea?" he asked lightly, "And some food?"

    John remained by the open door, plastic bag still in hand. His tired eyes ran restlessly over every surface and nook in the flat, as if running into an old childhood friend and reading his life story in the lines of his face.

    The flat's timeless appearance left him with a surreal sense of déjà vu. John tossed his bag on the sofa and murmured "Yeah, sure. Ta. To the tea, that is. I'm not hungry."

    "Alright," came the voice from the kitchen, "I'll just make you tea and some toast, then."

    John made a face and carefully eased into his chair by the mantle. "Isn't that my line?" he said flatly. 

    Sherlock peered out from his unlit corner, "Not good?"

    "It's fine, Sherlock. Tea and toast would be lovely." John shuffled about in the chair, prompting a thick cloud of dust to rise about him. He reached behind to smack at the Union Jack pillow before sinking back into it's depths. "It's all fine."

    John's lids snapped shut with finality. The tense lines of his body did not change, but Sherlock knew that he was asleep whilst walking up with the serving tray.

    The detective placed the tray gently on the side table and eased into his own leather chair. His eyes, devoid of color in the faded afternoon light, kept their focus in John through the steam from the tea.

    Sherlock blew across the tea to cool it and then took a sip. He sat motionless whilst he sipped, occasionally finding the need to blink or draw air.

    John's tatty figure appeared fragile and ghost-like. Sherlock was suddenly afraid. If he called attention to himself, might John vanish with a pop like a soap bubble. Was this real, or was John simply one of his dreams?

   *Blow* sip.  *Blow* sip.

    Sherlock watched John sleep for hours.


	49. Right Back at You, Dude.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John starts the healing process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Lie down, lay thine ear close to the ground, and list if thou canst hear the tread of travellers." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "...if thou see me down in the battle and bestride me, so! 'Tis a point of friendship." - William Shakespeare

Two months, nineteen days, and eighteen hours after the death of Mary.

     John was tired. He said little, and ate less. Sherlock strived to suppress any visible anxiety, but he feared that his transport betrayed him. John had never appreciated mollycoddling; for all the magisterial doctoring he had imposed upon Sherlock, John preferred to suffer independently.

    Quiet trays of tea and toast were placed within John's eyesight, and surreptitiously removed when untouched. Sherlock fought bitterly to rein in his feelings; John felt their weight nonetheless.

    In times past, John had taken long, meandering walks about London when his emotions overtook him. Despite his weak condition, the doctor donned his coat and hat and slipped out of the flat some time after nine a.m.

    Sherlock was silent as he watched John go, biting his lower lip with trepidation. He strode to the window, taking note of John's direction. Fortunately, the cold snap was over, and the sun was shining.

    Feeling at once awkward and grateful, he grabbed his phone and texted his brother. Mycroft, in a surprising bit of goodwill, had organized a safety net of friends and minions to swoop in to help John if necessary.

     Sherlock had convinced his Homeless Network to pitch in as well. Between the CCTV cameras, the under-the-table pay-offs to the local pubs/ purveyors of liquor, and the watchful eyes in the street, John was at less risk from harm, self-inflicted or otherwise.

    Sherlock himself jumped into action, yanking on his heavy coat and tripping down the stairs to the street. Trailing behind John was a familiar and comforting habit of Sherlock's. The detective had developed this pastime long before the fall, soon after Mycroft's first "borrowing" of his flatmate. Keeping his presence unseen should be child's play, considering his lethargic quarry.

     John shuffled along the busy streets, arcing away from other pedestrians as if they were toxic. He neither made eye contact, or for that matter even watched for traffic.

    Twice, Sherlock found himself in the awkward position of having to duck and cover. In both instances, his friend had halted without warning and spun about in search of pursuers. No stranger himself to the perils of being tracked, John had often let on when he felt eyes at his back. Soldier's instinct, perhaps?

    The sun rose higher in the sky. Tired of wandering around the city without an agenda, John eventually settled on an iron bench in a wayside park. He gauged the hour as roughly high noon. The wind was blowing, but in gentle puffs from seemingly every direction. The sounds of traffic were softer here, muffled by the leafless bracken and a stand of oak trees. It was so still. It was nice.

     The doctor peered down at his tender fingers, still raw from frost nip. His nails were ragged and dirty. He felt ancient and tattered, like last autumn's leaves. John tilted his head back to gaze into the late winter sun until blacks spots churned in the sky. He was so tired of thinking, but he just couldn't stop. 

      _I am so tired. So tired. Where do I go from here? I don't know, I can't think straight, I can't think at all, at least logically. Just a nightmare awake, for me now._

The widower's thoughts spun in a circle, starting with the horrific dream about Mary three days before. He hadn't realized how much rage he'd tamped down to accept her back, done as much in an effort for Sherlock's sake as in thoughts of his unborn child. Sherlock's herculean efforts to salvage John's marriage basically mandated their reunion. 

"Sherlock," John whispered thinly. "It was always and forever all about you. Damn you, you stupid arse. You took the best of me with you when I fell." John examined his damaged hands in confusion, turning them about as if they were the hands of a stranger.

     Wedged between a spare bit of hedge and an iron-wrought bench, Sherlock's ears pricked at the sound of his name. John was talking to himself. John was talking to himself about  _him._

    The detective risked a surreptitious peek around the hedging in hopes of gauging John's expression. To his infinite shock and horror, he was blasted to the ends of the Earth by the sight of John Watson peering right back at him. 

     "Come out, you git, before you get an ASBO for something unsavory." John chuckled without much humor. "Do you really think I didn't expect you to follow me? After all this time?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I haven't been able to work up a chapter with a decent number of words in it. I had a marathon work week and am soooo ti-yerrrrd I could die. And if the work week didn't put me out of commission, the news of the Syrian regime certainly would have. Jeezus Pleezuz. Too sad.


	50. Squirrel Cage, Revisited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John talks to Sherlock about why he can't talk to Sherlock. Yeah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Useless trivia question: I use the expression "officious prick" to describe Mycroft. Does anyone know which author I borrowed this phrase from, and from what novel? Hint - think horror. Think "Jack." After all, brainy is the new sexy.

     Feeling like an utter twat, Sherlock rose as gracefully as he could from behind his obviously substandard hiding place and floundered over to his friend.

    The detective's face flushed a miserable pink, discomforted at being flushed out so easily. "I am sorry, John. I was worried that - I was concer...damn it." Sherlock took a breath to compose his thoughts. "You are still so fra..."

     "Don't say it." John blurted, momentarily raising both hands like a traffic cop. "Just shut up about my physical condition, please." John let his head drop, focusing back on his hands. "Remember,  _Dr._ John Watson? I know what I've done to my body."

    The two men sat, silent and still. The small chittering, fluttering brown birds grew comfortable. One bold fellow landed on the ground less than two feet from Sherlock's left foot, regarding him cheekily.

    He couldn't help but smile as the sparrow hopped about on it's toothpick legs. Its companions swooped down to join it, peeping and pecking about.

     Once upon a time Sherlock would have considered these tiny creatures irrelevant and beneath his notice. On this day, he chose to view the little things as prophetic of his future. Surely, if these delicate, wild birds could trust him, John might one day as well?

     The sun began its slow descent to the west, and yet the men sat still. John, betrayed by his lack of body fat, shivered in the chill. Sherlock eyed him surreptitiously, attempting to monitor the little man's welfare without John's awareness. He started as John mumbled something rude about his insufferable nosiness.

     "Right. Let's get on with it." The doctor  rose with some effort, his body stiff from the unaccustomed exercise. "I'm going to piss my pants, if I don't find a loo soon."

    Sherlock joined John, and the pair walked a circuitous route about the city to find a decent coffee shop. Sherlock ordered hot coffee whilst John used the toilet. John took the proffered beverage without comment, gingerly sipping the steaming and fragrant brew as they strolled. 

     Relieved and refreshed with a coffee apiece, John lifted an arm to hail a taxi. Each cabbie, keeping with the status quo, ignored John's efforts and motored by with nary a glance.

    Sherlock wondered if somewhere, a picture of John was posted warning cabbies throughout the UK of John's predilection for cold-blooded cabbie-cide He wouldn't be surprised. Nothing surprised him anymore.

     Carefully avoiding John's eyes, Sherlock lifted an elegant arm and whistled. Thirty seconds later a taxi pulled alongside the kerb. John scowled, swallowed his pride, and slipped inside it's stuffy warmth. It was getting bloody cold outside. 

     Anticipating the arrival at 221B to be the end of their interaction, Sherlock took advantage of his captive audience. Clearing undissolved sugar crystals and a few stray coffee grounds from his throat, the detective composed a little speech.

    "John..." he cleared his throat again. "John, I've had this little theory bouncing about in my head, and it's been wrecking havoc on my entire thought process. Would you care to hear about it so it stops driving me mental?"

     John slowly turned his head to the window and let out a coffee-scented sigh. "If you must." Another sigh. "Sure, Sherlock. Go ahead and lay it on me," he said, sounding slightly more amenable. 

   "Well, John. John. Yes. The first time Mycroft shipped me off to rehab was, well, a very long time ago." Sherlock toyed with his phone. "The whole setup was rubbish, of course, but one thing stuck with me. I still think about it now, when things get difficult."

      John's tatty hair concealed any emotion he might be expressing on his thin face. Nevertheless, the tilt of his friend's head alerted Sherlock to John's interest in the conversation. Sherlock pondered his next words indecisively, in dread of saying the wrong thing. 

     "OK, so, what bloody magical thing stuck with you all this time?" John breathed, becoming impatient.

    The moisture from his breath fogged the passenger window. As Sherlock watched, John took a finger and carved a smiley face through the fog. Its twin marked his bullet-riddled wall above the couch at home. Sherlock's hair stood on end, though he couldn't say why.

   "Almost every therapist, doctor, nurse, orderly, etcetera, etcetera, was an idiot. They were all hateful, except for one woman called Louise. She was a nurse there, quite an old one in fact, and for some inexplicable reason found me bearable to speak with.

    She explained that I had locked myself up in a metaphorical squirrel cage, and was so busy battering myself about on on the inside that I had forgotten that I held the key. Do you see?" The detective, afraid, risked a soft touch to John's shoulder when he suddenly slumped over against the window.

    "No. Yes. Tell me again," John muttered, rubbing his nose distractedly.

    "I was a right prat at uni. Well, we all were, the lot of us. I deduced all of the other students, basically in self-defense against their scorn and intolerance of my...eccentricities.

    Despite my claim to the latter, I actually found myself wanting friends." Sherlock grinned as John, swiveling his head, met Sherlock's eyes with a start. The smile didn't quite reach his eyes.

   "Yes, I know...sentiment. It was obviously quite disconcerting. 'The Great Sherlock Holmes', feeling lonely. Thanks to a fellow chemistry student, I found out about the miracle properties of cocaine. It turned out that a precise .07% concentration, dissolved into saline, allowed me to shut off my brain.

    At the same time, I was able to rid myself of any nuisance emotions regarding the other students' atrocious regard. It was splendid. The cocaine, that is," Sherlock said, smirking.

     "And of course, Mycroft, that officious prick, went wild. He threatened to pull my college funding and strip away my stipend. In turn, I did everything in my power to make his life miserable." Sherlock bit a thumbnail. "I have been trying to do so my whole life, I think, and so far have been incredibly successful."

    "He _is_  an officious prick, Sherlock. That's who he is." John said, abruptly feeling protective.

    "That's not  _all_  that he is. I believe...I believe that he has saved my life just as many times as you have, and that's saying a lot. Mycroft was the only reason I survived my childhood intact. One day, perhaps I shall endeavor to explain my childhood to you." Sherlock grimaced painfully. "Then again, perhaps not. It is a rather depressing tale."

   "Ok. So?" John prompted, only willing to acknowledge so much pain in Sherlock's life at the moment.

    "I didn't quite understand what Louise was saying at the time, but I have had over twenty years to ponder her words." This stopped Sherlock cold. _Twenty years? I have been fighting this addiction for almost a quarter of a century? Ridiculous._

   "This, this bloody awful situation you've been thrust into, has provided me with a different perspective. I understand now what she was saying." Sherlock paused, trying to formulate an explanation whilst avoiding such nonsense words that the so-called health care profession employed. 

    "So, I am the metaphorical squirrel here? And I have locked myself in this so-called metaphorical cage?" John said in a slightly snarky tone. He shot Sherlock a rabbity rodent face, teeth wedged over his bottom lip and nose twitching.

    "Yes, exactly right." Sherlock nodded in trepidation, ignoring John's face. He felt that his friend was setting him up for a trap or an argument, but it wasn't quite clear in what form it may take.

    "So, maybe I am there for a reason?" said John.

    Sherlock studied his friend. He opened his mouth - only to close it with an audible click of his teeth. He didn't answer John in fear of feeding John's argument.  _There is something here I am not understanding. I know that wicked look in his eyes._

     "May I continue to explain myself before we begin a discussion?" The detective risked adding a smidgen of snark in his own voice, raising his chin in mock irritation. Two could play at this game.

     "Well, if you must," John flipped a disparaging hand. "I'm all ears."

     "The thing is - the thing is, that the cage represents guilt and self-loathing. Once a person is trapped by their guilt, they are unable to...they become stuck. Because they feel bad about something, they feel that they deserve to be miserable. You...a person keeps pounding away at the bars of the cage, when in actuality -."

    "Louise must have been quite the clever nurse." John tensed his shoulders, shrinking into his coat. By some trick of the eye, it now hung on him loosely, two sizes too large.

    "The catch here is, Sherlock, I've turned into a bloody bad man. The things I have done, the people I've hurt, those things can't be erased. It's all fine to say that I 'hold the key', he said with a sarcastic sneer, "but the truth is that I don't deserve to be free from guilt. Your taking drugs as a method of coping is a far cry from my selfish behavior. The two situations are completely different."

     "No, John, that's not true!" Sherlock groaned, "You're not listening to me at all!" To his horror, he realized that they'd reached the flat. This wasn't how this conversation was supposed to turn out.

    John was supposed understand how important it was he recover. Instead, he'd handed John a lovely way to explain his destructive behavior - and in point of fact, endorse it as a correct and proper path to follow.

    John jammed a hand in his pocket and pulled out some bills. He didn't bother to count the money or wait for his change.

    John slid his slight frame from the taxi as if it was on fire, craving an end to this conversation. Chest tightening and stomach clenching with nausea from the bitter coffee, he stood in the street breathing hard.

    Sherlock mounted the kerb facing John. "Please come in. It's too cold to be out. I'll shut up now...we don't have to talk."

    John, rooted where he stood, nodded slowly. The little man walked heavily to the kerb and surveyed it as if it were Mount Everest. He paused, watching Sherlock unlock the door, then stepped up with effort to cross the pavement.

    John's eyes filled with tears that he refused to let fall.  _Fucking tears. Fucking life. What did I ever do to deserve this kind man? I beat the ever-loving shit out of him, that's what. Stop your whinging and act like a man, you bloody berk!_

They entered the foyer in silence and hung up their coats. "Sherlock," John started, inhaling deeply through his nose, puffing air out his mouth, "You have been nothing but kind to me for the last two weeks. I don't understand it, but I won't dishonor your efforts. I just...I don't want to feel good, I have too much to account for, and so much to rectify. I can't talk about this now or I'll blow a fuse. Alright?"

     Sherlock gazed at the love of his life with such tender regard that John was forced to avert his eyes. "Please," John said, "understand that I am not trying to hurt you by not talking. I just can't. I just can't."

    The detective tilted his head away and nodded his acquiescence. The men clumped up the stairs to the flat with reticence. Sherlock made his way to his room and shut the door gently. John shoved an arm across his face to wipe it dry and ascended to his room. He flopped face-first on the bed and lay still.

 


	51. The Perils of Desire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second stroll through the streets of London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more; it is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "And oftentimes excusing of a fault doth make the fault the worse by the excuse." - William Shakespeare quotes 
> 
> "The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill together: our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipp'd them not; and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherish'd by our virtues" - All Well That Ends Well, Act IV, Scene III

     John slept like the dead until half past twelve in the morning. Consciousness came by degree until he sensed he was awake. His legs had hung off the side of the bed and now ached from their hyper-extension.

    Nevertheless, the doctor eased his feet to the floor and descended down to the kitchen. He drank three glasses of water in quick succession, and poked through the cabinets for a snack. As per usual, the cupboards were bare. 

     Chronic exhaustion wasn't enough to cure John of the fidgets. He craved a drink. He craved a lot of drinks, so that his mouth watered at the thought of good whiskey.  _The curse of being a doctor is that I know better. Being privy to Harry's example (and that of our wanker of a father) is that I know where this all leads. Shit, look at Sherlock. Addiction 101, at the head of the class._

_Christ, I need a drink._

He missed Mary. He yearned to cuddle his most precious and beautiful daughter, to wipe the drool off her chin a finger. He longed for the easy companionship once shared with Sherlock.

     If John was completely honest with himself, he knew he desired much more than friendship with the man. His body ached for the detective's safe arms and soothing words. He hungered for Sherlock's touch on his body, all over his body. On him,  _in him._ His mouth on John's cock. John's mouth on his. 

      _I'm not gay._

     ** _Jesus Christ on the Cross I need a drink. Just a sip. Just a nightcap, to get me on through._**

John scrambled about for his shoes. A picture of his oxfords shoved under the bed popped into his mind. He employed his experience as a soldier to stealthily scale the stairs to his bedroom and then back down two flights for his coat. John had used all his cash for the taxi, but two credit cards lay ready for use in his billfold. 

    The doctor spent over five minutes in reconnaissance, soundlessly listening for movement from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom. Nothing. No lights, no shuffling sounds of a sleuth on the prowl. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

    Feeling fairly confident that his escapade through the flat had gone unnoticed, John edged past the door. He dutifully locked it behind him, taking a moment to bless Mrs. Hudson for keeping the double-bolt lock well-oiled.

He must. Have. A. Drink.

     In the flat, Sherlock flew to the sitting room window. He squinted past condensation to see John high-tailing it down to the local all-night market. John wasn't going to be pleased when the shopkeeper refused to sell him any liquor. Mycroft had seen to that. Bloody Mycroft. Wonderful Mycroft. He picked up his phone and notified Lestrade that it was his turn on watch.

     John was going to be soooo pissed.

****


	52. The Advantage of Risk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft ponders if Lady Smallwood's affections are leading him to revise his opinions about love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “...Who could refrain,  
> That had a heart to love, and in that heart  
> Courage to make love known?”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Macbeth
> 
> “Sometimes when we are labeled, when we are branded our brand becomes our calling.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Macbeth

   The eldest of the Holmes children, with balding pate and slight potbelly, leaned on the fireplace mantle. Mycroft desired nothing more than to settle into his beloved wing chair and have a nightcap (or two). That sounded marvelous. Yes. Two fingers of bourbon, and quite possibly a cigarette to round out the experience. Bloody perfect.

    Several pressing matters of State had prevented Mycroft from more than a few hours rest within the last few days. More to the point, however, the tragic events leading to Dr. John Watson's break-down were most troublesome.

    His little brother was a tempestuous fool at the best of times. Handling him now required an infinite amount of time and patience - both of which he was in short supply.

     Mycroft had a recurring dream in which he single-handedly developed a method of cloning himself. The only quandary he imagined with this scenario would be in the wrangling over singular possession of the umbrella. It was a very special umbrella...very James Bond.

     _Holmes. Mycroft Holmes. And I prefer my martinis shaken, not stirred._ A silly and child-like smile flashed across his face. Mycroft would been horrified of this expression of sentimentality, had he been aware.

      _Fine. Alright. A small indulgence on my part is acceptable tonight. Good._ The most powerful man in Britain stepped over to the polished walnut liquor cabinet and perused his collection of magnificent (and incredibly dear) ablutions. One well-apportioned snifter of brandy later, Mycroft eased into his chair with a creak of his knees. He was becoming frightfully old, terribly fast.

     By fate's fickle hand, Mycroft had been dealt the role of eldest sibling. He had never wanted a brother, or a sister, for that matter. Mycroft had been at the center of a pleasant, if pedantic family. Mummy, the maths genius, and Daddy...not so much.

    Father was oh-so ordinary, and yet when his strong, limber arms swung tiny Mycroft in the air, well, Daddy was the world. An entire world, rotating effortlessly about his son,  _the_ _Sun_. Mycroft, the center of the Universe. He'd never dreamed he'd end up a binary star.

     And so,  _Sherlock._ Bloody  _Sherlock._ Beautiful, and intelligent, with luminous eyes and cupid's-bow lips. The fact that words never fell from these lips was irrelevant. Sherlock was fascinatingly strange and exotic; Mycroft's opposite in every conceivable way.

    Had Mycroft been an ordinary child, he would have felt jealous. Rather, he was stodgy and practical. Responsibility was thrust upon his rounded, young shoulders.

    Mycroft's own brilliance afforded him an unbiased view of his brother's potential. It was therefore his duty to protect his little brother, by any means necessary. He was the only one to see.  _Thrust_ into this parental role... as the universe succumbed to the pull of dark matter.

    Mycroft's life was dedicated to reigning in his brother's more eccentric behaviors. It was necessary, lest Sherlock sink inside himself forever. He loved Sherlock so very, very much.

    However, observing the fruitlessness of his parents' gratuitous affection, Mycroft's world view became skewed. Caring was not an advantage in preventing Euros's descent into psychosis. Caring solved nothing for their brilliant second son. Mycroft's eyes would have shed countless tears, had he allowed himself a heart.

    Love. Useless, really.

    And yet...Lady Smallwood.  

    She was rather kind for a steely-eyed member of parliament. And beautiful. And funny. And bloody intelligent. A stalwart cohort in difficult times. A useful interpreter of Sherlock's emotions. A pleasant dinner companion, dare he say, a friend?

   And beautiful. Did he say beautiful? And hot. Smoking hot. And...dear God, she set his loins on fire. She was hot. And she may have just changed his life. Mycroft's mind still wasn't convinced caring was an advantage. Mycroft's penis disagreed.

 

 


	53. The Desires of Peril

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has a hissy fit.

   The forecast had not called for heavy weather. Nevertheless, a crashing big thunderstorm was raging in downtown London. Cats ran for cover, dogs headed home, and rats simply moved out of town. The streets were a dangerous place.

    A silvery lightening bolt of fury, AKA Cyclone John, went raging from one liquor store to the next. He knew  _exactly_ why he was denied the sale of anything stronger than a six-pack of Coke.  _Fucking Mycroft. Sodding Sherlock._ Goddamned fucking rat bastards. They had  _no right_ to try and control him. 

      _NO...RIGHT._  

     He was a bloody veteran, for fuck's sake. He'd spilled his blood for this country! He was useless as a surgeon as a result of his shoulder injury...thanks for nothing, arseholes. So how had he been rewarded for his service for Queen and Country? A pathetic excuse for a pension and a miniscule wage from the clinic.

     And  _what...WHAT_ were they hoping would happen? That he, a soldier, would bow his head meekly and submit to their clumsy attempts at handling him? He invaded Afghanistan, for Christ's sake. Ok, he wasn't alone, mind - but still, he would _never_  accept this! Not when he knew that Mycroft only lifted a finger in benefit of his brother. And Sherlock only bothered to lift a finger when he was personally invested, an extremely rare situation...

      _do not go there_

_Control yourself, dammit_

Control. Yes, control. That is the only thing that the Holmes brothers cared about. As in, _being_ in control. Having all the control, and the power to do whatever the hell they wanted, damn the consequences.

     John kicked at a trio of bins, snarling in abject anger and misery. His heart was broken and bleeding, and Sherlock had locked up his medicine.

    The little man's arms flailed uselessly about, smacking at adverts and door frames, letter boxes and awnings. He grabbed at anything within his reach in an effort to destroy it, or rip it, or break it in two.

     John's mind was spinning at 100 miles an hour, and he  _needed_ to shut it down. The doctor felt panicky, heart thumping in his chest. Sweat beaded his temples and dampened the clothing around his armpits.

     _Absolutely...fucking...perfect. I am having a panic attack - or a temper tantrum. Take your pick, you fucking git. Or, maybe I should have both. Spice up my emotional life, as it were. Make a slight departure from selective mutism and eating my pillow. Sherlock will be so pleased._

John ducked in an alley, suddenly run out of gas. He struggled to even out his breathing, and mopped his face with his forearm.  _I am a natural disaster._ Abruptly, a sense of shame enveloped him. What was he doing?

     Sherlock was in effect on hiatus from the Work, metaphorically wiping John's arse in some abortive attempt to revive him.  _He_ _had begged_ for Sherlock's intercession.  _John_ had wormed his way back into Sherlock's life. John was the interloper, invading his home, sucking up his time and energy.

     _I am not salvageable. Why am I wasting his time?_

John strode up to the back of a shop near its bins. Gritting his teeth, John unthinkingly clenched both his hands into fists. Rearing back, swiveling his hips, he pushed off the balls of his feet and punched at the wall with all his might. He held nothing back. 

_Set your sights on the enemy, soldier. Swallow your fear and attack! Don't stop until the bastard is dead._

    Again. Again. Again.  **Again.**

    Brown flakes of brick mixed with blood from his knuckles. A slippery concoction of coppery sludge dotted the wall and dripped to the ground. White light infused his mind and for the first time in what felt like forever, John was at peace.

     "Oi! Arsehole! What do you think you are doing? That's my house that you're getting all bloody! Have some respect!" The rasping voice shot out of the dark, far from the security lights. 

    John swung around with his hands up, transfigured from soldier to civilian in less than a second. He tried to unfurl his hands but they remained crusted stiff in tight balls. "What?" John said in confusion. "Who's there?"

    "The owner of the house that you mucked up with blood! Make a mess in your own home, yeah?!" Came a voice from much closer. "Didn't you hear me the first time, you bloody berk?"

    The speaker's harsh tone and garbled delivery impacted John's comprehension. Age and gender were also a mystery. However, two things were perfectly clear to the doctor. The person was heading his way disturbingly fast, and was utterly, seriously pissed.


	54. Tramp Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Homeless Network - Sherlock's eyes and ears for the activity in London. It comes in handy when tracking an unhinged flatmate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though  
> many of the rich are damned." - William Shakespeare  
> All's Well That Ends Well (1.3.14)

     John backed up in a 45-degree angle from his antagonist, subtly putting a collection of bins between them. A shrunken and toothless old man stepped into the circle of bright security lights. He raised one hand with a flourish, akin to a circus performer stepping into the center ring. John eyed the man doubtfully. He wasn't sure where the dirt ended and the man's clothes began.

    The tramp appeared to be about 110 years old, shuffling forward on bent sticks for legs. He held a crumpled up newspaper, which cradled some noxious foodstuffs. The malodorous mix of whisky and stinky-old-man wafted forward along with the slight breeze. 

    John lowered his hands, heedless of the mess he'd made of his hands. He frightened himself with his lost of control. Shame burned roses in each cheek. John ached for his old self, the soldier, the healer, the friend. He would do what it took to bring that self back.

     Sucking in his bottom lip, John regarded his antagonist. The tramp was gesturing to the back of the building and then at the ground in horror. John took in what he had not seen before...a pile of cardboard and boxes with a stinky-old-man-shaped depression along the center.

    The doctor grimaced as he spied spatters of blood and brick covering the kip. He'd squashed what appeared to be the man's kitchen table.  _Shit._

"Excuse me, sir? I'm so sorry! I -" John flailed about for a legitimate reason to be bleeding on and crashing about the man's "home."

     "As you should be, you git! I can't sleep there now, can I?" He snarled in disgust and sucked in an appraising whiff of air.  "Are you pissed?"

    "No! No, I...was just upset, not drunk." John pulled up a hand to scrub at his head. A bloody streak now marred his brow.

   "Oi! The  _fuck did you do_ to your hands?" The man's expression slid from one of disgust to amazement. "Come here, you stupid arse! Let me see."

   "No, I'm okay, uhm..." John peered at the tops of his hands. His knuckles were swelling into bloody mountains of flesh. He shook his head slowly. "Christ! I guess I'm not okay. I am very sorry I stepped on your house."

    The tramp tsked with an bemused pursing of his lips. He shuffled forward since John hadn't moved, and gently maneuvered his wrinkly fingers under John's left palm.

    He lifted John's hand closer, up to the light, and squinted with professional interest. "I'm a doctor, you know. You're in luck!" The man tilted John's mangled digits and examined each knuckle in turn. "In my opinion, son...you've fucked them right up, yeah?"

    John flushed, a plethora of emotions rushing through his stomach and leaving him ill. "A doctor, you say? You're a doctor?"

    "Ha!" The tramp cackled. "Well, I was...before this." He tottered over to the wall and kicked an empty bottle in John's general direction. "And this!" he kicked another glass bottle. "And this!" A powerful kick spun a third bottle up to John's feet. John flinched away as if dodging a rat.

    "Ah. Uhm. I - look, I don't have anything on me," John said, gesturing to his back pocket in lieu of his wallet. "But I am terribly sorry for this. I want to make it up to you somehow." 

    "For fuck's sake then, stop breaking my wall! I don't have much, you know...but I think that will suffice for now. Just get your arse home and leave me to mine." He turned his crinkled face to John, smiling cheekily. "Go on now..sod the fuck off."

    John nodded slowly and carefully. "Thank you...one last thing."

     The tramp raised an eyebrow in an unspoken query.

    John cleared his throat and said with a sigh, "Can you please tell me where the bloody hell I am?"

*******************

   As one man slipped out of the alley, another man slowly slid in. His silvered hair caught and crowned his head with a corona of light. "Hey, Geoff!" He called, voice muted. "Great job, mate! You were brilliant!" The newcomer reached in his jacket and pulled out a generous handful of cash. 

    The little man's fingers wiggled in a frenzy of impatience until the money graced his hands. "No problem, Detective Inspector. It was my pleasure, believe me. Anytime." He moved to go and then spun his head around and winked. "One thing more, if you please. Give Mr. Sherlock Holmes my kindest regards."


	55. The Susurration of Shoes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are developing a new type of friendship.

      Sherlock caught the exhausted shuffling sound of his best friend's shoes as he entered the foyer. Early on, he had developed a mental map of the flat, and used sounds like radar to track John's movements.

    In his mind's eye he saw John gently close and bolt the front door. John commenced to remove his black coat, but for reasons unknown he paused at the shoulder line and eased it back on. Perhaps he was chilled by the night spent outside.

     Then one step. Two. The gentle squeak of his right foot pressed on the third stair, without the accompanying pop that sounded under a person's full weight. John straddled the second and third stair and then paused. Heavy sigh.

    Eventually, his feet resumed their ascent and the widower emerged at the open doorway. Sherlock blanched as he registered John's injuries. He sprang from his chair and ran to his battered flatmate, enveloping John in his arms.

    They stood still, barely breathing. John's body relaxed incrementally and he sank into Sherlock's warmth. John mashed his body against the lanky man's chest, causing subtle vibrations over Sherlock's heart when he spoke. "Sherlock," John breathed out. He spoke his friend's name like a prayer.

     "I am so sorry, Sherlock, for all the shit I've given you since Mary died." Savoring the silky fabric of Sherlock's dressing gown, John scrubbed his dirty face across his friend's torso and audibly gritted his teeth.

    "I don't know what to do or how to think. I don't know how to be  _me_ anymore. I'm not a doctor, I'm not a soldier - fuck, I'm not even a  _friend_ or a  _husband_ or a  _ **father!**_ I'm nothing!"

     Sherlock scooped John up in his arms, unconsciously calculating his friend's weight. John had greatly diminished. John's body was insubstantial as that of a fragile baby bird.

    "Come on, John. Let's get you cleaned up." He squeezed John with his arms and kissed the top of his head. " _I know_ who you are, John, and _I know_  that I love you. I think that's quite enough to be working with for now, yeah? Let's put the rest on the back burner and have a wash."

     The detective carried John into the bathroom and gingerly set him back on his feet. John stood passive as a child as Sherlock peeled off progressive layers of clothing. John's jumper, newly filthy, saggy, and stretched out, was dumped straight to the floor. 

    "You've made a bit of a mess of your hands, John," Sherlock observed neutrally. 

   "Yeah. A bit not good, right?" John lifted up his hands for a look-see, finally shaking his head in self-disgust. "I know some of the knuckles are broken. I'm afraid I am going to be a bit of a pain in the arse for the next month or so. Ha!" John laughed bitterly. "What else is new?"

   "Do they need to be set? Do you need to go to A&E?" said Sherlock, biting his lip. Returning to hospital was decidedly risky, and may just end up with John being sectioned.

   "I think it's too late for anything fancy," John murmured, "but if you get me some aluminium splints...and possibly Molly Hooper...I think I can give it a go here at home. Eh...rather, I can set them at _your flat_. No problem." The little man, standing in droopy white y-fronts, flushed from ears to chest. "I mean. Uhm - I wasn't trying to imply anything, really, I -"

    Sherlock disregarded John's near-naked condition and laid his warm hands on John's cheeks. "John," his voice cracked, "this is your home as long as you want it to be. I don't...let's figure out the long-term living situation some other day, preferably when you're not standings starkers and bleeding all over the floor?"

    John guffawed loudly, tears lending a shine to his eyes. "Yeah! Yeah, I guess you're right. You're always right, aren't you." He placed his swollen hands over Sherlock's and snuffling, whispered "I wouldn't have survived this if not for you."

   "I'm honored to hear that you think so." The detective risked a lowering of his face, shortening the distance between their faces. "I think we can agree that we've both saved each other. We made a good team" Sherlock grunted, trying to regain his composure. "Look. Let's get you started in the shower and then I can go call Molly, alright?"

    John cleared his throat and coughed uneasily as he eye-balled his pants. "Ehm..."

    "Off or on, John?" Sherlock queried, matter-of-factly. They had seen each other naked before, well almost naked. Regardless, John's face flushed crimson anew. 

    "Face facts, John. You smell worse than a corpse, and that," Sherlock indicated the smashed-open skin on John's hands, "needs to be washed and sterilized. Am I wrong in thinking that your hands are too damaged to use at the moment?"

    John slowly shook his head and then shrugged. "Go to it then, mate. It has to be done." He turned to face the tub and horrified, found himself shaking as Sherlock placed his hands on his hips and drew down his pants. John kicked them off his feet and pushed them aside. He stood frozen. The situation felt surreal, dream-like.

    A stillness entered the room. Sherlock found himself shaking as well. He blinked back the sudden drips of perspiration rolling down his forehead and struggled to maintain his breathing. "John, I need you to move to the left so I can turn on the tap." John fairly jumped sideways to avoid touching the detective. "Hot? Lukewarm? What."

     "Lukewarm, please. These are going to sting like the dickens."

     Sherlock watched the water surge downward, splashing against the back of the tub. He stuck a hand in the stream to test it and then obsessively adjusted the temperature for well over a minute.

    The detective fancied that his feet had adhered to the tile. He could not seem to move in any direction, not even to look at his friend. "Will you require any...aid in your wash-up?" he croaked. "Your hair...with your hands..."

     John shivered helplessly to his left. "I think that I'm going to need help with a lot of things until my hands heal. What's next, I poke out an eye? Lose a kidney and beg one off you?" he giggled helplessly with a lunatic hitch, and then groaned. "Sherlock, Sherlock...I am so sorry to impose. Yes. I require your aid."

    Sherlock nodded, all emotion concealed behind his pale mask of a face. He stripped down to his boxers in a no-nonsense manner, grabbing a flannel and two towels.

     Sherlock assisted John into the shower from behind, with a tight hand under each armpit. Not good, dropping John. As Sherlock watched, gooseflesh shot straight up John's spine and lifted the hair at the back of his neck. The little man mimicked the stance of a scarecrow, keeping his knuckles well away from the water. They hurt like hell as it was.

     The wash-up proceeded in silence. What does one say in such a situation as this? Both men once professed love and sexual desire for each other. This didn't seem the time to revisit the topic. Not whilst John bore the gentle administrations of his flatmate. Not whilst bare-arsed in the shower. Not less than three months since Mary.

     Sherlock perceived a rising sense of panic in his friend, primarily due to his posture. His reaction to the wash-up was somewhat alarming; John had curled into himself like a bug. "John, are you well?" Sherlock said apprehensively. John's neck and back had flushed red, muscles tight. "Is the water too hot? Are you hurting?" Sherlock had finished John's hair, and had moved down to soap John's thin torso. 

   Ah. Oh _._ No? "John?"

   John wanted to die. He wanted to shrivel up and die, to be sucked down the drain with the rest of the filth. As a recent - very recent, mind - widower, he should not have such feelings for Sherlock. Sherlock, the man, his wet, semi-nude friend; the one whose soft hands touched his back. John should be thinking of Mary.

  John should absolutely, unequivocally, and fundamentally not sporting a great massive hard-on for Sherlock. "I think I can take it from here, thanks. Go call Molly, Sherlock. Please."

  "John? Are you sure?" Sherlock dithered.

  "YES, I am sure, thank you very much. I'll give a yell when I'm done, yeah?" John spat.

  "So..."

  "Jesus, just go!" 

  Sherlock fled.

 

 

   

    


	56. Ring Around the Rosie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John inadvertently comes into contact with Rosie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What's in a name? That which we call a rose  
> By any other name would smell as sweet."  
> Romeo and Juliet (II, ii, 1-2)
> 
> “His heart is too full, and no words to release it.”  
> ― Gabrielle Zevin, The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry

* * *

     John spent some time turning off the hot water. Or rather, John spent a mind-numbingly, shit-fuckingly, god-awful, not to mention bloody large amount of time man-handling the rat-fucking tap.

    The difficulty lay in his soap-laden forearms and elbows. Thumbs are required for most physical manipulations, temperature augmentation not-withstanding. In addition, images of Sherlock's long fingers (via soapy, very thin flannel) running over his body... whilst they stood bare, inches apart... 

    His body had betrayed him.

    Why did everyone and everything have to be so trying? Sarah's patience at the clinic was trying. Molly's abrupt metamorphosis into Mother Theresa was trying. Lestrade's awkward attempts being jolly were trying. Mrs. Hudson's bloody infernal chocolate digestives were trying. He was a burden to every person he loved or felt affection for. He didn't understand. Why did they still care?

     But most of all, what exhausted John more than anything else, was Sherlock's boundless and unconditional love. That gorgeous man's love was relentless. It just went on and on, despite how much of a prat John became.

    His friend was so patient, and gentle, and generous. So kind, and so sweet, and so _fucking beautiful...with those luscious pink lips and that high sculpted arse and his great bloody...Christ._  

   John  _still_  didn't understand.

   Why did Sherlock still care?

   After pathetically shivering under ice-cold water for more than ten minutes, John figured that his penis, directly and forthwith, had waved a white flag in submission. The little man's frozen limbs proved quite incapable of moving as he hollered for Sherlock's assistance.

     John wavered on wrinkled blue feet as the detective dried him, dressed him, and helped clean his teeth. Neither man made mention of the arctic chill radiating off John's skin. Sherlock kept his eyes above John's neck. John kept his eyes on the tile. They made do.

     Once both men emerged from the toilet essentially unscathed, John released a great sigh. Sherlock reported that Molly's arrival was imminent, along with Graham. "Who?" John managed to eke out between blue, shriveled lips.

   "You know, Graham. New Scotland Yard. Silver-haired bloke. The detective inspector! Honestly, John, the man came to your wedding!" Sherlock felt every muscle in his body lock up in horror. He'd mentioned the wedding.  _God_ , what a moron he was. 

  "For the last, and final time, Sherlock...Christ in heaven, it's GREG! As in Gregory." John raised both hands like a Catholic priest blessing the Eucharist. "The name is of Latin origin, meaning 'watchful, or vigilant.' Don't look at me like that, I looked it up. A perfect name for a detective, yeah? Greg. G.R.E.G. Greg. If I ever hear you refer to Lestrade as Graham again, you bloody berk, I swear I'll -"

   John fell silent as the knocker clacked against the black outer door. Sherlock's eyes met John's with some undefined emotion. John looked fixedly back at the detective, sensing some unknown dilemma heading his way. "Shouldn't that be Molly?" he said, aiming a swollen fist down the stairwell.

    "Yes, John. It is." Abruptly Sherlock stumbled past John down the stairwell. The doctor observed as he thumped down the stairs. Sherlock's haste bemused him. Yes, his hands did need tending, but the damage was done.

    Why did John feel so trapped?

     _Oh. Oh Fuck._

_**Oh Shit. Rosie!** _

What in God's name was he thinking about when asking Molly to assist him? Well, he hadn't been thinking...or rather, he hadn't been thinking of anyone else but himself. Had his own pathetic excuse for a life become so overwhelmingly blinding that he forgot about his  _daughter???_

    _I am going stark raving mad. I can't see her like this, I can't even hold her with these sodding...Fuck_

John stepped backwards, away from the door. His feet didn't stop until he tripped over the Queen Anne side table and hit the floor sideways. Fresh pain shot up his forearms and an inadvertent yelp emerged from his throat.

     The doctor scrambled to sit upright, but his legs intertwined with those of the tiny table. John flailed about the carpet, using his elbows and kicking his legs in a useless attempt for freedom.

     Assorted phrases streamed from his mouth that would make even Sherlock blush. Blank white light filled his mind with frantic rapidity. He had to get out of the flat. 

 

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May I just say that I used a lot of hyphens in this chapter?


	57. Ashes, Ashes, John fell Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reunion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, this is far shorter and only part of what I'd intended to submit. Unfortunately, life keeps getting in my way. Nevertheless, I find I've become a kudos and comment whore. Those little numbers that appear on my dashboard are about the only positive thing in my life at the moment, due to a death in the family. In my father-in-law's case, he made my husband's life suck....and then he died. Jerk. Anyhoo, I had to get this posted for my own stress relief. Ta for your patience.

       Sherlock turned the doorknob and swung the door wide with a pensive expression. John had overlooked the logical appearance of his daughter when he had requested her godmother's assistance. John was perhaps going to freak. Sherlock opened his mouth as he laid eyes on Molly.

      Before the detective could utter a single word of greeting, his sensitive ears caught the the tumult from upstairs. Sherlock spun on his heels and leapt up the stairs, three at a stretch.

    With a frightened glance from Molly, Greg followed his consulting detective's trail, stamping up the stairs with all the grace of a bull elephant. Molly clasped a squirmy Rosie in her arms and remained on the stoop, concerned for the infant's safety.

     The detective's feet slid to a halt as he spied John on the floor. Sherlock tilted back on his haunches in an attempt for balance and was nearly clipped as Greg as the D.I. burst forward. Greg pulled an old rugby move and feinted left, thanking the stars for muscle memory. The men stood rooted by the kitchen with confusion written on their faces. 

     Greg grimaced and took a tentative step forward. John's frenetic activity had the earmarks of a fight for one's life. In this case, John's adversary was a delicate cherry-wood table, the very one on which John placed his teacups. The D.I. observed that the table was winning. NSY had not prepared him for this type of emergency.

     It was Sherlock who managed to unfreeze his feet first, and he stumbled to his knees by John's side. His flatmate rolled on his back like a beached whale, hindered by the loss of his hands. Greg edged closer and hoisted the table off John. "Christ!" the D.I spouted, feigning ignorance. "What happened to your hands, mate?"

      _Why do I forever end up on the floor? Fuck this, even the furniture hates me._ John's face flushed red in embarrassment whilst Sherlock maneuvered him up to a sitting position. "Hi, Greg. I happened to me, that's what. I had a row with a brick wall." He bared his teeth to approximate a smile. "What's new with you?"

     Lestrade lifted a finger and called for Molly to come up. "I need to lend Molly a hand with...ehh...with the medical supplies. Hang on a mo'." Gingerly stepping down to the foyer, Greg conducted a quiet exchange of information with the pathologist. Molly's gentle voice made John queasy.

     Then he heard Rosie squeal. John's face drained of color. A fearful groan escaped from his throat as he buried his face into his forearms. "Sherlock, I am not ready for this."

    "Sometimes, there isn't such a thing as the right time, John. Come on, let me help you up." The detective risked a surreptitious hug to John's back as he slipped a hand under each of John's armpits. "It will be alright."

     Sherlock frog-marched his friend over to the couch, and sat leg to leg with him for comfort-slash-containment; Sherlock, the human seatbelt. At this rate, John would break his neck before the night was through.

    John shivered violently and visibly. Unthinkingly, the detective flung an arm around John's shoulder and squeezed. The little man was one of the bravest men he knew, but a bit not good when it came to emotions. John's show of nerves was off-putting and contagious. "It's alright, John. This is a  _good_ thing."

    Molly initially avoided John's presence. She deftly slung a bag of supplies onto the kitchen table, along with Rosie's nappie bag whilst balancing Rosie on a hip. The infant batted at Molly's chest and lurched down at the floor. Rosie's passive days of cuddling were over.

    She wanted to crawl throughout this new place and explore. "mmmmBAH! ahBAH! BAH!" the baby hollered crossly, obviously dissatisfied with this situation. Rosie had _things to do._ Objects to  _break._ Electric cords  _to chew._  

    Molly yanked on Rosie's coat to prevent her inevitable tumble. "Hold on, sweets. Give Aunt Molly a moment." Molly unwrapped Molly from her fuzzy pink coat with practiced ease, whilst managing to avoid drool and a head-first plummet to the floor.

     The pathologist's new-found skill at baby-wrangling was a thing of beauty to Greg. He grinned at her with open fondness. The newly minted "Aunt Molly" stuffed her charge's coat in the bag and took a deep breath. Molly gulped, slapped on a smile, and marched herself into the sitting room.

     John's body trembled visibly. He bit his lower lip with such intensity that a trickle of blood dripped down his chin. A month's growth had transformed his daughter in more ways than John could absorb.

     He gawked at Rosie, breath halted, bloody-mouthed and ghost-white. John's stomach roiled with nausea whilst bile clawed up his esophagus. "Sherlock!" he whispered hoarsely. "I'm going to puke. Soon! I..." the little man gagged violently. He struggled to maintain his composure, but the night's doings had exhausted him beyond all measure. Dr. John Watson was  _done._


	58. All the King's Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mishmash of issues get solved, some new ones develop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I do love nothing so well in the world as you: is not that strange?" -William Shakespeare
> 
> "Be to yourself as you would your friend." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "I am wealthy in my friends." - William Shakespeare

     Sherlock turned to face John. True to his statement, John's face now radiated a sickly green hue. "Grab me the bin from the kitchen, would you, someone?"

    He squeezed his friend's biceps briskly, murmuring comforting platitudes as Greg scrambled about. "It contains several feet of red rubber tubing and a bag of human toes, if that aids in location." Sherlock tossed out, and was gratified to hear Lestrade calling out "Ah-ha! Oh Christ, Sherlock! That's disgusting!"                  

    Greg thrust the heavy bin under John's nose at the very moment he started to spew saliva and bile. The three adults  _not_ presently in a state of severe nausea blanched anyway, more at the sounds than the sight. John was retching now more than vomiting, but he was obviously still miserable.

   Sherlock lifted John's sweaty fringe out of his eyes, waiting impatiently for the gagging to stop. It did, eventually...finally. Thank God.

     Rosie whimpered in dismay, sensing her godmother's consternation. The infant, as of yet focused on Molly, was not aware of her father's presence. It was just as well. The reunion would be a tenuous one, at the very least. 

    "Molly, I am going to give John a chance to freshen up." Sherlock turned to peer into John's lowered face. "What can I do to help you, John? Water?"

    "Help me get to the loo, yeah?" John rasped out, still tearing up. "And maybe a clean shirt?"

    Sherlock popped up from the sofa, and the two men worked their way down the hallway to the toilet. Greg watched the little procession with a worried, downward turn of his lips.

    Neither man had come out of the past five years unscathed. It seemed incredibly unfair that a man such as John faced the death of his partner _again._ In this case...no miraculous and triumphant reincarnation was forthcoming.

    Molly put Greg in charge of Rosie and started her preparation for splinting John's fingers. His hands had looked like chopped meat, even after being cleaned and sterilized. John would be effectively disabled until the bones had healed, probably not for several weeks.

    Greg knew better than to attempt to herd John's daughter throughout the chemical death trap/part-time mortuary known as Sherlock's flat. After a quick word with his sweetheart, Greg clomped down to knock on the door of Mrs. Hudson's.

    The landlady's squeal of joy quickly diminished, settling into more somber tones. Their mingled voices rose and fell in the foyer, and then Molly could hear nothing more.

     The pathologist lined up two thumb and eight finger frog-finger aluminium splints and two fat sterile rolls of gauze. She hadn't observed enough of John's injured hands to formulate a specific treatment plan. Soon enough, the former flatmates trundled their way into the kitchen, and John sat down at the table.

     Sherlock flipped on the overhead light, and the three of them studied John's hands in subdued silence. Eventually, John lifted his gaze to Molly and gave a clinical rundown of his injuries and how he wanted each finger positioned.

     It was far too late to set the bones properly, and the lack of X-Ray imaging reduced the quality to that of a field dressing. There was nothing for it. Molly exhaled, and began.

     John, without access to a non-addictive pain killer (and too nauseous for paracetamol) began to swear under his breath. "Sorry, sorry...can you turn your right hand over, John?" The pathologist said in apologetic tones. Molly struggled to maintain a professional demeanor, but this was  _John._  

    The doctor's face strained with the effort of remaining still and relaxed. John sucked in a ragged breath. The tissue manipulations that occurred whilst setting a bone were often brutal; and necessarily so.

    Tendons, ligaments, muscles, nerve fibers, blood vessels, cartilage - not to mention subcutaneous layers of dermis and fat...multiple tissue types sustained damage during the fracture of a bone.

    All these tissues intermingled in the formation of each individual finger. Molly had to wrangle each set of tissue into submission alongside the bones.  _Fuck._

    No right-minded doctor preformed such procedures without the numbing affects of a serious analgesic. This hurt like a bitch, but irrational behavior has its price. He deserved to suffer. 

    Forty-five arduous minutes later, John sported three splints on his right hand and four on his left. As an ex-army man, John knew how to throw a punch. His thumbs had been spared.

    The doctor mopped his sweaty forehead and gulped down the glass of water Sherlock offered. Now that his fingers rested in protective splints, John again had the use of both hands and thumbs, if not fingers.

   "Thank you, Molly. That was very well done. And...I...we need to talk. I've been taking grievous advantage of your kindness ever since my wife died." John' voice quavered. He swallowed hard and continued. "I...there is no way that I can make it up to you that I know of...and my poor daughter, my...I -"

    Molly shot forward, grasping the doctor's forearm and giving it a tight squeeze. Sherlock watched in amazement at the confidence and assurance she radiated. Greg had been very good for this self-deprecating woman.

    "John, now you listen to me. _John._  Look at me." Molly waited patiently for John to lift his eyes to her face. "I took a pledge be Rosie's godmother. I did this in front of all of your family and friends - everyone you care about. I don't take vows lightly." The pathologist observed the simultaneous cringe of both men with confusion. She frowned and tried again.

    Tilting her head whilst flashing John a sweet smile, Molly changed the subject. "Rosie is a dear. It has been my honor to step in and allow you some breathing space. It...it eased a tiny bit of my sorrow. John, I love Rosie. And, uh, welI, I care very much for you."

    Molly practically radiated bliss as she regaled John with amusing anecdotes about Rosie. John's daughter was adorable, loving,  _so cute._ Rosie was an absolute joy, and she loved _every minute_ of their time together. John barely blinked. He breathed in her words like oxygen. Rosie had not suffered. Rosie was loved.

   Sherlock scrutinized John for clues, gauging his friend's emotional state. John's persistent and toxic desire for self-flagellation left the detective in a perpetual state of disquiet.

    Sleeping was difficult at the best of times. Now, Sherlock was sorely tempted to sleep against the front door. He would try anything to prevent John from another night of self-injurious behavior.

    John's complexion pinked up a bit upon Molly's heartfelt words. The little man felt smothered by the multifarious layers of guilt he'd borne. Absolution lay beyond his grasp.

   "How..." John cleared his throat with a harsh grunt. His face flamed. His negligence as a single parent sent waves of mortification shooting up his spine. He didn't deserve such a beautiful daughter. "How do you think she will react when she sees me? I don't...I can't even hold her with these.."

   Tears sprung from John's indigo eyes. He had left a swath of destruction in his wake. He had so much to atone for. "I love her so much! She lost Mary...I practically abandon her..."

   "John!" Sherlock spouted in frustration. "Shall I run out to Tesco's and buy you a hair shirt? This. Has. Got. To. Stop." He slapped the table for impact. "Rosie is  _fine._ Upon hearing Molly's testimony, she's more than fine.  _She is thriving."_

    John blinked blankly up at Sherlock, who had somehow jumped to his feet. "I want to see her, Sherlock." He turned to Molly. "I want her. Can I see her? Do you think that -" he panted, scrubbing a mark upon his reddened nose. 

    "Go down to Mrs. Hudson's and fetch John's daughter, would you, Molly?" Sherlock said, resting his plate-sizes palms on John's shoulders. "It's time, I think."


	59. Putting John Back Together Again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Rosie. Rosie and John. Sherlock. Bam!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The voice of parents is the voice of gods, for to their children they are heaven's lieutenants." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "We know what we are, but not what we may be." - William Shakespeare

    John and Sherlock hunkered impatiently on the leather couch, as if awaiting the second coming of Christ. Sherlock stretched his long arms around John protectively.

    This was evolving into a habit for the detective; Sherlock's fallback position. Save John, no holds barred. Rosie may be John's daughter, but he held the keys to his heart.

    John nestled into Sherlock's body, appreciating his best friend's, well, everything. Sherlock was his  _everything._ Come what may, they loved each other...and the time for second-guessing was finished.

    No more games, not anymore. Not now...not ever. The faint echoes of Rosie squealing funneled up the stairs. "Jeee-sus, Sherlock. I can't...what if she doesn't recognize me? What if she hates me for abandoning her?"

   Sherlock nuzzled his nose close to John's ear. Giving John an encouraging squeeze, Sherlock whispered "Buck up, John. You placed Rosie in the safest place possible. You made the right choice, at the right time. She's your daughter, and you love her. It's all going to be okay."

    After an agonizing wait, the men heard the clomp of feet ascending the stairs. Greg, Molly, and Rosie. _Jeee-sus._ "Up we go, sweetums. It's time to say hi to Daddy." Molly cooed tenderly. 

    John squelched the urge to jump out a back window. His body trembled with an excess of adrenaline.  _'Fight or Flight' response. Chill out, before you pass out, dumb arse._ Breathing quickly, almost hyperventilating, he spied his beautiful daughter in Molly's arms, coming through the door.


	60. Out of the Mouths of Babes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A baby's-eye view of the situation

    Life had been wonderful and constant. She swam a warm, fluid sea; never hungry and never cold. The muted noises whose meaning were just beyond her ken often wrangled for supremacy with the rowdy gurgles, rushing fluids, and steady lub-dub emanating from her host. The aural stimulation was entertaining. She liked it.

   Then, life changed. Her home shrunk inward, literally depriving her of elbow room. She could no longer straighten out her legs, and the noises got louder. A sense of impatience crept into her awareness. This place no longer satisfied. She wanted more. She wanted out.

    More came, much to her chagrin. She was squashed. Pushed. Manhandled. Elongated, pulled, and half-frozen. Overwhelming sounds. Blinding lights. It was like she'd been slapped. It was enough to make her cry. She regretted the lust for something new. She wanted to go back home. 

    But then, that changed, too. She finally got to see her host, eye to eye. A creature of wonders; so soft, so warm...and _oh,_ so tasty. The host's milk was delicious, and so satisfying that she craved for it even when not really hungry.

    All things considered, she lived quite comfortably in this one's arms. She most hardily approved of the soft crooning noises that emanated from the wiggling pink parts on it's top end. The host cleaned away the warm, foul-smelling...whatever that was, and dressed her in new wrappings as a matter of course. This host was  _quite_ adept...definitely a keeper.

    And then, there was the other one. This one only fed her milk from a hard, cold nipple. He wasn't as soft, and was sometimes quite scratchy. He wasn't her host. And yet, he smelled right. He smelled good. She remembered hearing his sounds from that other place. He made the same noises, over and over. It was soothing.

 _rho_  zee.    

      rrrrHHHOOOO  zeeeeeee....

   Sweet uuhms       

                  Luuuuv 

     It was nice. He was nice. And he had a name.  _DAH dee._ And  _Muu mee._ This was the name of her host. Just lovely, the pair of them, keeping her fed, and warmed, and cleaned, and loved. Lovely. 

    Soon enough...someone else came to hold her. He was nothing like the other two. So different, but interesting, all the same. She liked to watch him jump around the place like...well, like a jumping thing.

    This one was so tall, and not soft at all. He reminded her of the dark flapping things that could be found in the...place. The place with that bright, warm light overhead. She liked that place. She liked this creature. 

     It was a good thing, she could tell. She had an instinct about these _things_ , after all.

     Pointy bits stuck out of both sides of his body. And the  _noise_ that came out of his top...well, it never seemed to stop! But, she liked him all the same. In fact, she liked him very much. He called her  _WHHAAAWWWWT sun._ He lifted her up high in space and danced. Most satisfactory. Without realizing, she thought of this flappy creature as one of  _her_ creatures.  _Hers._ He was one of hers.

    And then! Just when she was getting a handle on things. Everything changed, again. It made her so mad she could spit. Well...to be honest...she did.

    She was  _Rho see._ Her host was  _Mummy._ The scratchy one was  _Daddy._ The pointy one was  _Sherlock._  She lived in a place, and had her own space. She was a baby. She knew that now. And things were good.

   And then it was all gone. A new person took care of her now. A person called Aunt Molly. And Greg. Uncle Greg. They were kind, and she liked them very much. But they were not hers. Her people were gone. When had she lost them? Where had they gone? No one ever thinks to explain these things to a  _baby_. 

  But, time had moved on. Life was developing order.

  She had fingers, and toes, and wore nappies. 

  Chair legs were hard when you bumped them. 

  People yell when you bite them.

  Cats were _not good._ They taste horrible, and have pointy bits on their feet. Wretched, wretched creatures.

  She made poopies, and didn't like carrots.

  She wanted Mummy and Daddy. She  _wanted._

_She wanted her Mummy and Daddy._

_***_

One of the best things about Aunt Molly was that she brought Rosie to the most interesting places. Rosie loved to get out. The apartment was nice, but _that_ _cat._

   Rosie liked watching birds, and dogs, and busy-busy people. She liked red honking lorries, and whippy black taxis. She liked the wind in her hair, and the sun on her face. Rosie was a happy person by nature. She liked everything, and everybody.

   Except the cat.

   So, when Aunt Molly bundled her up and grabbed extra nappies, Rosie couldn't help but give a little wiggle of joy. Uncle Greg carried her special seat to the car and messed about with the seat belt.

    Teeny-tiny words slipped out his mouth whilst bending into the car. Aunt Molly yelled at him for "swearing in front of the baby", and Rosie let a blob of spit fly in disgust. What was she, an infant? She'd heard naughty words before. Uncle Greg reminded Rosie of Daddy.  _Let'em rip, Uncle Greg!_  

    Eventually, they all buckled in and went driving. Aunt Molly yelled at Uncle Greg to "Stop driving like a detective and start driving like a normal human being!" Uncle Greg whispered tiny words again, teeny, teeny words. Rosie still knew what he said.

   Aunt Molly looked out the window and  _what?_ Aunt Molly seemed sad, or afraid. Rosie whimpered until Uncle Greg passed Aunt Molly her binky. He was good back-up. Rosie sucked on her binky, planning to keep a close eye on her aunt. Instead, she fell asleep.

   ***

   And, they got out of the car and walked up some stairs. Something noisy scared Aunt Molly and Uncle Greg ran inside a big door. Aunt Molly and Rosie stood outside in the cool breeze.

    Rosie was beginning to worry that  _this_ was going to be the entirety of the outing until Aunt Molly climbed with her up the big stairs. This new place was noisy, and dirty, and a tiny bit smelly. Rosie was compelled to explore. She didn't see any cats.

   But, that man. And this place. Rosie squirmed frantically in an attempt to get down. She needed to see. But, of course. Just when things get interesting, Rosie has to go away. Uncle Greg carried her back down the stairs and then...hey! Mrs. Hudson! Hey! Hey!

   

   

   

   She knew that tall man. 


	61. Sense and Sentiment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A coming together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When I was at home, I was in a better place." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "Though she be but little, she is fierce." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "When I saw you I fell if love, and you smiled because you knew." - William Shakespeare

 John wrapped his forearms around his squalling daughter. She clutched her chubby arms around his neck and wailed inconsolably. "What...what do I do?" He begged of Molly. "Tell me what to do!"

     John felt completely disabled by his useless hands. He'd lost the dexterity required to wipe Rosie's nose, or even clear away the strands of curly hair cemented to her tear-streaked cheeks. To compound the situation, he himself hitched and sobbed, barely holding himself together. 

    Greg enfolded Molly from behind, both to offer support, and in an unconscious effort to defend her against the Watson's pain. Tenderhearted as they were, it was a fruitless endeavor. His love's cheeks glistened with tears. The DI's nose began to drip.

  Even Sherlock looked devastated.

 *******

     Molly gingerly climbed up the seventeen stairs to 221B, practically sick with trepidation. She'd known that bringing Rosie to the flat was playing with fire, but Sherlock had insisted. And, where John was concerned, Sherlock had the final word. It didn't take a genius to see how Sherlock felt about his flatmate.

     Rosie grew progressively squirmy as they  closed in on the flat. Two steps before the landing, Rosie made a break for freedom by shoving herself backward against Molly's chest. She was as stubborn as her father, and even more persistent.

Rosie. Wanted. Down.

    Clutching a scant handful of the infant's onesie, Molly narrowly averted disaster. She was no athlete, but a month's worth of baby-wrangling had sharpened her reflexes.

    "Rosie!" Molly squealed in panic. "Just give me a minute, love,  and then you can get down." She readjusted Rosie on her hip and tightened her grasp. The nappie bag thumped against Molly's bottom. Infants required so much  _stuff._

_I go down! I go down! That tall man! I think he is my flappy man...Daddy's man. No flappy black coat, but that hair...Daddy!  If the flappy man is here, will daddy be here? I want my daddy. I need to find him._

Sherlock felt his own stomach roll in a fit of unrest as Rosie emerged at the doorway. This was altogether an unpredictable state of affairs. In spite of insurmountable odds, he and John had mended their fences. They'd bonded together in a deeper and more sustainable partnership.

    But, even a genius like himself couldn't deduce a baby.  _Hang on, John, I've got you._

Sherlock eyed Molly as she crept into the sitting room. Their eyes locked. A voiceless, yet voluminous conversation occurred in the time it took to cross the carpet. This might end up as a joyous reunion. It could also turn into a complete disaster, adding insult to injury.

    John was a wild card.

    Sherlock would have killed for a cigarette. Even low tar. Low tar would do. Hell, even a butt picked up from the gutter, floating in a watery oil slick, sounded brilliant. Floating alongside a dead rat. Yes. _I_ _was a fool to insist on Rosie coming today. Why do I need to push the issue all the time? Simple conceit, that's why. Pleeeaaassse let this be okay._

     John had never felt more like a failure. His Rosie, his beautiful, extraordinary, incredible daughter, had a shit for a father. A crippled shit. An alcoholic shit. But a la Mrs. Hudson, he had to buck up. Rosie has been robbed of her mother by a merciless, traitorous harpy. 

   John resolved to man up. He be damned if he left Rosie to her own devices, piece-of-shit father or not.  _Fucking Christ, she's enormous! What the...how much of her life have I already missed?_

     "Oh my God, Molly...she's so big!" John whimpered, eyes round and cheeks flushed. He swung his body to sit face-to-face with his flatmate. "Good fucking Christ...Sherlock, she's so beautiful!"

    "She has your eyes, John." The detective observed, risking a sidelong glance at his partner. "She is...beautiful." Sherlock sniffed soggily and cleared his sinuses with a loud honk. "Good Lord, the scourge of sentiment and the hideous attendant bodily fluids...John, look. Wait. Rosie's looking at you."

     John swung back to Rosie, maintaining composure by the skin of his teeth. It was losing battle. The days, and nights, the weeks of self-indulgent drinking...his shame suffused his mind in agony. It was a moot point at any rate, but who knows what psychological damage he might he have lain upon Rosie to if he'd kept her in his care?  _I am not my father. I am not my father. I AM NOT MY FATHER._ _Fucking hell...my hands!_

  Rosie stared, goggle-eyed at her father. His voice triggered a memory, an emotion, a sense of warmth and security and love. It was her Daddy, and that lovely flappy man sat besides him. That was her Daddy!

  John's daughter flung her body outward into the general direction of the couch, arms all akimbo. In another lifetime, perhaps the infant had been a yoga instructor...or keeping in mind Rosie's ease at great heights, an acrobat in a Chinese circus.

   Granted, those were both fine career choices for a physically adept young lady, but in this lifetime, Rosie was an eight-month-old infant dangling by her ankles by the white-knuckled fingers of a certain doe-eyed godmother.  

    Sherlock shot from the couch like a rocket. With his typical flair and finesse, Sherlock liberated Rosie from her fall. No-one, no-one was ever going to fall in front of John Watson again. Ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a really hard chapter to write. I'm writing this from a personal perspective; different setting, same emotions. 1,000 words (or less) can't even begin to describe all the guilt and feelings of inadequacy that parents experience when fighting mental illness. Anyway...just sayin'. Poor John!


	62. Love is More Than Chemistry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This could be the start of something good.

    "I don't know if I can bear this, Sherlock." John sniffled, baby daughter/first-time garroter tucked under his neck and finally sleeping. "Sherlock? I mean, seriously. I can't believe how stupid I am. My God..." John buried his nose into Rosie's feathery fringe. "How did I ever abandon her?"

   "John," Sherlock murmured, his own stately nose buried into John's sweaty brow. "You didn't give her up. You kept her safe." They line up against one another, life-sized Matryoshka dolls; small, medium, and large. "You entrusted her to Molly. Ah...Molly. What an amazing person she is under that unassuming facade." 

    An hour earlier, the couple had made the decision to withdraw from the flat. John needed time, and for that matter, so did Rosie. The remaining members of Family Watson needed to reconnect free from distractions. Molly and Greg had left to catch a late dinner out. Both had phones on and charged. They would wait until asked to return.

   "Yes. Yes, she is absolutely amazing." The doctor echoed. "Lestrade, too. Amazing, wonderful people." John arched back in an effort to make eye contact. "Do you ever think about it? How they have saved both our lives? And not just once, Sherlock. Repeatedly, despite the massive amount of shit they've taken from both of us."

   Sherlock took a deep breath, and opened his mouth. A perplexed moue emerged on his face. He closed his mouth, opened it, and then exhaled heavily. "John. My dear John." Sherlock flashed an abashed look at his friend, cheeks pinking up.

   "What, Sherlock. Spit it out. You know you can tell me anything." John snorted. "It was you and me. The two of us against the world. Remember?" 

   Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. By now, his entire face bore a rose hue. "People have always been so transparent for me. I have always been able to deduce if someone was lying, or dangerous...or whatever." The World's Only Consulting Detective dropped his hand and peered into the deep indigo eyes of his love. "The motive, the means, all of it."

    "I know. Incredible, as always." It was the doctor's turn to color. "It's not a trick. It's a gift."

    "But  _why_ people care. Whypeople make decisions based on emotion rather than logic. Why people allow their silly sentiments to control them, rather than..." Sherlock's beautiful eyes flicked down to Rosie. He brushed a gentle finger across her brow. "Why do people  _love_...John. This is a mystery to me that I cannot solve." Sherlock murmured. 

     "And, you are questioning this now because...why? I'm sorry, I'm not sure I know where you are going with this. I've lived my whole life by gut instinct, rather than logic. I've been a weak and hopeless fool." John let fly a joyless laugh. "Are you asking me now because you think I have a clue?"

    "I've let my rage...and sorrow, and self-serving thoughts, all if it. All of them. I've let all of my emotions, good _and_ the bad, control my behavior. Shit, Sherlock. I am the last person to give a definitive answer regarding love, when I've so horribly mistreated the people whom I love the most. My emotions have led me down the wrong path so many times, and have I've hurt so many people who only wanted to love...er...love me."

   Unexpected tears dripped down John's cheeks, pattering onto his daughter's sweaty pate. "Oh!" John cried, quickly drying his face on his shoulder. "Christ, Sherlock! All I ever do anymore is cry! Me, a former soldier! Shit. I've turned into a sodden mess."

   "Shhhh, John." Sherlock pulled John closer into his chest. "I'm not sorry for sharing my thoughts with you, even if did make you cry. I, we...there are so many things I have to say to you, that I want us to talk about, but...later. For now, for this moment, let's just breathe."


	63. What Dreams May Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A big question is answered.

Three months and twelve days after the death of Mary

   John rolled over, and lay in repose as he watched his lover sleep. Sherlock's breathing was steady and slow, like the tide rolling out from the shore. The detective's unique and rather delicious scent filled John's nostrils as he inched incrementally closer. "Sherlock," he breathed, voice barely audible. "Are you awake?"

    Sherlock smacked his lips and continued his slumber. "Sherlock...Sherrrr loooock..." John budged his lips up against Sherlock's left ear. "Sherlock!"

    The detective in question jumped away sideways, and rubbed at his ear in annoyance. "Jesus, John...what is it?" He peered at his partner, weathered face limned in moonlight. John abided his time, inspecting Sherlock's face for any clues of comprehension.

    "Ah...I understand now," Sherlock smirked. "Come here. I can't quite see you from all the way over there." Sherlock tucked a sly hand under John's armpit and rolled his lover up and onto his own torso. "Hello, John. How are you this fine evening?"

    "Hello there, yourself! I am just lovely, thanks, if maybe a little lonely." John's elbows bracketed Sherlock's head like a set of bookends. He took a finger and traced it down Sherlock's forehead, to his nose, and across his lips. John's finger must have liked what it found, for it lingered there to drag along the lush lines of Sherlock's lips.

    Sherlock popped open his mouth and secured John's digit between top and bottom lip. As John squeaked in surprise, Sherlock made short work of sucking it all the way in with a heated moan.

     "Jesus, Sherlock! Your beautiful mouth!" John sighed in bliss. "Amazing. Your bloody, amazing, beautiful mouth.

      "Really? You've never said!" The detective goggled in mock surprise, before returning to his more pleasant activity of milking John's finger with a hot tongue.

      "Sarcasm, Sherlock?" John grinned in amusement.

      Sherlock snagged John's wrist and removed his wet finger. "Yes, John. Sarcasm. Or, couldn't you tell?" He lay John's hand on his cool chest. "It's half three in the morning! Are you going to get down to business or shall I put myself back to sleep? You know I never get enough sleep."

     The detective wrapped lanky arms around his partner's middle and squeezed. John seized the opportunity and flipped Sherlock over with a hefty yank of his shorter but powerful arms. The men began to roll their hips up against each other, small sighs of pleasure filling the room.

     "Will you fuck me tonight?" John groaned, his cock rubbing hard and hot against Sherlock's. "It's been a while, what with that lovely arse always tempting me to stuff it proper." John reached down and wedged a hand between the tangled sheets and that sweet, soft bottom. The doctor wiggled his hand around one plush cheek, burrowing into Sherlock's crack.

     "Hell, John, that tickles!" Sherlock squirmed, giggling helplessly. 

     With a gleeful yelp, John leaned back to avail himself of both hands. "Aw...poor baby!" He pinched the softest part of his lover's rump, provoking a mock cry of protest.

     "Oh my, did I hurt that tender bottom? Shall I kiss it and make it better? I am a doctor, you know." John giggled, opening his mouth to - - -

   ****

   John rolled over on his side, giving an agonized yelp as one tender hand hit the bedside table. Two fingers had healed up enough to remove the splints. The rest of his mangled bones were healing but had yet to set completely. John was effectively helpless for most simple tasks.  _Damn! Dream._

    The doctor's vest and pants clung wetly to his sweat-soaked body. John struggled to sit up and kick off the duvet. He suddenly realized that his cock was fully erect and dripping. The dream flashed through his memory, one sweet moment after another of temptation. "Shit!" He moaned, embarrassed and feeling betrayed by his own body. He should not be having sex dreams about Sherlock. 

     "John?" Sherlock's quiet baritone rumbled from the kitchen, where he was brewing a fresh cup of tea. Large feet padded down the hallway and John hastily pawed at his linens until he felt decent. For reasons of practicality, John had switched rooms with Sherlock. Navigating the stairs to his room had proven dangerous, unable to to grasp the railing as he was. "Are you alright?"

     "Uh, fine. No problem. Just...dreaming." John inspected his throbbing hand sourly.  _Damn hands. Damn brick wall._  

     The detective shuffled up the hallway and peered into his half-open door. "What were you dreaming about? Was it a nightmare?" His tangled locks were back-lit from the soft glow in the kitchen, leaving his expression unreadable.

     "Yeah. No. I just...it was just a strange dream." John hedged. 

     "Do you want some tea? The kettle's still hot." Sherlock's long figure eased into the bedroom, where he dared to settle one hip onto the sleep-tangled duvet. He blew on his steaming cuppa, eyebrows raised.

     "No. In fact, I think I need a shower. I'm all sweaty." The little man abruptly grimaced, remembering his state of arousal. Removing his coverlet now was risking disaster. "Hang on. Hold onto that thought. Uhm, it's too late - or, too early. I'll wait until morning."

     "Don't be ridiculous, John. You know I wasn't sleeping." Sherlock rose up from the bed. "I'll just go set it -"

     "No, wait!" John protested. "I'm fine."

     "You're sure." The detective paused, the fine wrinkle at the bridge of his nose deepening with suspicion.

     "Sherlock...look. Come here. Come sit down." John said, scooting back against the headboard to make room. "I...we need to talk. I have things I need to say to you."

     The detective froze, morphing from flatmate to deductive genius in the blink of an eye. "What is it? What's wrong?"

     "Sit down, you git. It's nothing catastrophic, just - I suppose that now is as good a time as any to have this discussion. Christ knows I'm not going to get back to sleep anytime soon." John patted the bed with the base of his palm. "Come here."

    "Alright." Sherlock moved in and planted himself by John's feet. "I'm here."

     John began to regret this conversation, even before it had started. His stomach clenched in anxiety. "God, God you  _know_ that I'm bad at expressing myself. It's never been an easy thing for me." He exhaled, licking his bottom lip. "God, Fuck, why is this so hard. I feel so much in here," John pointed to his chest, "but something up  _here_ won't let me say it."

    "Just say it. We shouldn't have to face mortal peril in order to be honest with each other. Well, at least I hope not. I'm fresh out of bombs at the moment."

    John snorted. "It's been a long ride, hasn't it. Uhm." He scratched his scalp, contemplating the two years of utter bliss he'd shared with Sherlock as his "assistant." He smiled to himself, looking down. God, it was good, whilst it lasted. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

    "You could say that." Sherlock's eyes gentled as he caught John's expression. "It wouldn't have been the same without you."

    "I know I - I know I have a long way to go before you could even think about trusting me. I've mucked it right up, yeah?" John's smile slipped from his lips as if it had never been.

     " _John._  Just shut up about it, will you? You forgave me for being a massive prat after..all that," Sherlock flipped a loose hand in the air, a wordless and yet accurate description of his multiple fuck-ups. "And you _know_ I have forgiven you. Enough. Done. This whole conversation is boring."

     "It's just, I just think about my future...our future. Rosie's future. All of it." John growled fiercely at the uncertainty of it all.

     "And what do you think should happen? If you want Rosie to visit more often, I should -"

      "No. That's just it. I need to live with my daughter, not just have her stay here and there. As soon as these heal, it has to happen. For her sake. For mine. I  _owe_ her a normal life." The hallway light cut deep shadows under the widower's eyes, which blazed with intensity.

     "I see." Sherlock muttered flatly. "Are you planning to return to your home?"

      "Christ, Sherlock, no, I can't. Not there. Too many memories, too many mistakes. No. I'll clean it and sell it. No, not there." John bit his lip, disturbed.

     "Alright. And so, what?" Sherlock breathed.

     "I mean, it's just...I've only been sober for three weeks. Shit. Shit. Why is this so hard to say?"

     "Because it's sentiment, John. It clutters the mind, I have said it before."

     "Shit, Sherlock. I've just lost Mary. I can't, this isn't the proper time to say this. To think this! To  _feel this._ " John gritted his teeth with a horrible squeak. "Christ, Sherlock, this is so inappropriate of me." John blew out a huge breath of air, cheeks puffing and lips pursed.

   "You know, and I know, that at different times that...you and I have both expressed...affection for one another. Love. You've recently told me that you love me. I...I can't even  _begin_ to tell you how much I needed to hear it. I want it. I need it, ehm, your love, that is."

     John scratched his nose, marshaling all of his fortitude together so he could continue. He raised his chin and stared straight into the luminous eyes of his best friend. "And, I want to say to you, now, that I do. Too. Love you, that is. I love you, Sherlock, and I think I always have, ever since the day I shot Jeff Hope. Our first real day, together."

     Sherlock sat, breathless. For the first time in his life, he was hearing the words that he waited for every day and very night since he'd met his truest friend. He watched John's thin lips as he repeated those long-awaited sentiments, saying simply, "I love you, Sherlock. I'm in love with you. I think I always have been, I just didn't always know it."

    "John." The detective choked out. "John."

    "And, therein lies the problem. I'm in love with you, and here I am, not even widowed four months! I mean, just because it's not new...I just, it's the wrong time, and I have to do right by my daughter! Don't you see, I don't know what to do or how to go about this, to make everything right for Rosie."

    "Whatever you need, John. That's what I can give you. No strings attached. Just tell me what you need and I will give it to you, I swear." Sherlock learned forward, tea forgotten. It spilled a little, and he quickly sat back.

    "I need my best friend, right now. I need a trustworthy flatmate. I need a fellow addict to teach me how to get by. I need a partner to help me with Rosie." John peered bleakly down at his hands. "It's a lot of thing I need right now, Sherlock, and I feel like it's expecting too much to -"

    "Yes. Yes to all of it, John. I'm good for all of that. It would be my privilege and my pleasure to have you both stay. And if, and if ever you need me to be something else to you, or for you, rather...I'm good for that, too."

    "Sherlock. Will you come sleep with me tonight? Just to sleep? I don't want to be by myself anymore. I do too much thinking and not enough resting when I'm alone in my bed." John spared a bashful glance up at Sherlock, cheeks on fire. "Would that be alright?"

   "Yes, John. Yes. I'll be right back." Sherlock made his way back to the kitchen and deposited the cup in the sink. Making a quick stop in the loo, Sherlock returned to his bedroom and stood, waiting.

    John moved over to the window side and lay back, watching Sherlock. His truest companion shucked off his dressing gown, letting it heap into a pile of blue silk on the floor. Sherlock lifted the duvet and slipped between the warm sheets.

    "Sorry if the sheets are a bit ripe, mate. I sweat when I dream." John wrinkled his nose, and thanked Providence that perspiration was the  _only_ bodily fluid moistening the linens.

     "No problem John. Good night. John." Sherlock turned on his side, facing the doorway.

     "Good night, Sherlock." John reached out to gingerly touch Sherlock's hair. The detective felt his entire body twitch, from head down to toes, and he hoped that John had not seen.

      Both men shut their eyes, and slept.

 


	64. One Day at a Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vignettes in the lives of...everybody.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Let me be that I am and seek not to alter me.” – William Shakespeare
> 
> "Nothing will come of nothing: speak again."  
> — William Shakespeare (King Lear)
> 
> “There's no art to find the mind's construction in the face.”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Macbeth
> 
> “I would challenge you to a battle of wits, but I see that you are already unarmed.” – William Shakespeare  
> (this doesn't have any bearing on the chapter; I just liked it too much not to stick in here somewhere)

Five months and three days after the death of Mary

     John felt his blood pressure elevate, face flushing, sweat tricking under each arm.  _Fight or flight. Shit, and do I want to fly out of here!_ He sat in Sarah's office, newly healed hands wrapped up in each other.  _This is too much. Get out now, you bloody git, before you completely humiliate yourself! Fucking hell._

      "John," Sarah spoke hesitantly, struggling to maintain eye contact. She was not really succeeding. In direct opposition to John, color had ebbed from her face in barely perceptible increments. Here she addressed him, pale in complexion and dithering over an appropriate choice of words. He had already lost so much.

      Sarah and John shared a complicated relationship. Their initial period of mutual attraction flagged rapidly; being kidnapped and rescued seconds from death via Chinese smuggler tended to dampen one's libido. Ehhh... at least it had dampened Sarah's. John himself felt rather excited one the danger was past.

     The relationship was over before it had started, really. Well, at least as far as John was concerned. No sex, no emotional intimacy...no matter. Sarah's presence in John's life fortuitously greased the wheels for continued employment, amidst repeated last minute call-ins and more than a few no-shows. Close friends to colleagues to...this. Apparently, he has burned his last bridge.

      He was being let go.

     John didn't know how to tell Sherlock.

     ***********

Five months and three days after the death of Mary.

     Hot. God, it was hot. "Open a window, baby," Greg slurred in post-coital bliss. Lestrade flung out an arm and bridged the gap between himself and his lover. "You're too smokin' hot!" He pinched her arse in sleepy affection.

    Molly shied away with a squeak. Smirking, she swiped sweat from her brow with a forearm. "That was good, so lovely...really good. You wore me out!" She sighed, rosy cheeked above and below. Leisurely stretching over Greg's head to crack the window, she proclaimed "I'm going to pass out, I'm so tired."

   "It's a bit different making love without Rosie, yeah? So much more enthusiastic. I can't even count the number of times I bit my tongue keeping quiet out of fear of waking her up!" The DI playfully slapped her hip as Molly rolled back in bed.

    She yanked up the sheets and curled up on his torso, frowning. Molly's demeanor changed from sleepily satisfied to pensive. Greg was instantly sorry for speaking his mind without first thinking it through. Molly's heart belonged to that little girl, and she visibly fretted over Rosie's welfare.

    Molly studied Greg surreptitiously in an effort to assess the meaning behind his words. Greg, despite Sherlock's thoughts to the contrary, was actually quite brilliant when it came to reading people; she was an open book. Molly was terrified of appearing too needy, or asking to much, or...something. The heady combination of "loving man" plus "helpless infant" had stirred something in the pathologist. She was tired of living alone.

     Gregory had said some very special things.

     She desperately wanted to believe him. 

     *******************

Five months and ten days after the death of Mary.

     "So, has he sold it yet?" Alicia prodded as she pulled up her stockings.

      "No, unfortunately not, despite his realtor's best efforts. If John hasn't received a valid offer by Friday I may just purchase it myself - under a pseudonym, naturally. John has lost so much; I dare not strip him of any perceived dignity." Mycroft, master of multitasking, traced a visual path up her thighs. Simply gorgeous. He straightened his tie.

     "That's not going to fool your brother, Mycroft. He'll deduce it before the ink from your signature has dried." Alicia straightened her suit in the mirror. Catching the true focus of his attention, she pressed her soft curves back into to his warmth.

Mycroft. Ice Man, _indeed_. His code name should have been "Candy Floss"

   *****************

Six months, eleven days after the death of Mary.

     Watson put forth a valiant effort in maintaining equilibrium, but dropped to her rump nonetheless. "EH! A ba mam-mam MA!" she bellowed, annoyed with gravitational pull.

   Upon landing, her two tiny front teeth pierced her plump lower lip. Watson scrunched up her face and howled, as the pain superseded frustration. This drooling, nappy-clad bundle of fury threw up her arms to Sherlock, blood dripping down to her chin. 

     His heart rate doubled.

     Sherlock didn't know how to tell John.


	65. Nights and Late Afternoons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The continued theme from the last chapter...basically, I have serious ADHD and require instant gratification. I never have the time to write a chapter of any decent length and thus I post extremely short ones. Hey look, a squirrel!

Five months and six days after the death of Mary.

   _Knock it off._

_Just stop now, you idiot. Breath._

_Don't be an arsehole and toss it all away. Drink now, and you spit in the face of everyone who loves you, everyone who bent over backwards to save your sorry arse._

_Just...breath._

_FUCK, this isn't going to work._

John sensed a menacing growl rumbling deep in his chest. His legs tore across the pavement, heedless of topography and traffic. Long, rambling walks around his beloved London generally soothed any upset, leaving him him soothed and refreshed. Tonight, his mind played a one-note tune of self-derision.

     He looked like a man marching off to war.

     In a way, this was exactly what John was doing; John vs. John. A desperate attempt to keep himself whole.

    Pedestrians sent wary, sidelong glances his way. John Watson, all 5'6" of him, was a force of nature when agitated or angry. He had to walk this out. He needed some air. He needed _a lot_  of air. But, this aching need superseded common sense.

    The doctor froze, and then frantically rummaged through his wallet. Money. Not a lot, but enough for what he intended. He could do it. He could do it right now, and nobody would know. Just one beer to smooth off the rough edges.

     _No. People love you. Sherlock's bent over backwards to help you. Christ, the man jumped off a bloody **building**  for you._

_What more more do you want?_

_Rosie needs a dad, not a drunk._

   Thrusting his wallet in his baggy pants' pocket, John rummaged through his coat for his phone.  _Got it._ Struggling to to hold the phone to his ear, he waited. Waited. Waited. Sherlock picked up the call.

_********************_

Five months and eight days after the death of Mary

      Mycroft's phone beeped, and he slipped it out of his trouser pocket for a peek.  _Sherlock. Sherlock was calling? Not a text? What is wrong now?_

     "Mycroft. Did you do this?" His brother queried. Sherlock's voice barely reached Mycroft's ears, lost as it was amidst the electronic cacophony raging around him. 

     "Hold on for a moment, dear brother." Mycroft entered his code, exiting the control room to stand in the corridor.

  "Mycroft. Did you do it?" Sherlock repeated.

  "Do what, exactly? I am actually quite busy, you know. I do many things and serve many purposes besides being your one-stop shop." The elder brother pinched the bridge of his nose, stalling. 

   "Mycroft!" Sherlock admonished in hushed tones. "You know exactly what I am referring to. Did you buy John's house?"

   "Ah, brother mine, and what would you say if I had done such a thing?" Mycroft waved his hand loftily, with eyes shining in amusement. "Shall I anticipate another endless diatribe about the interfer-" Mycroft gaped as Sherlock cut him off.

   "I'd say thank you, if such an action had been taken. But of course, my heartless brother would never do such an honorable thing. Am I right?" Sherlock's voice perceptively softened to an almost gentle murmur.

    "Oh, well, I-"

    "Because, as you know very well, John could never accept such an action on your part," Sherlock said smoothly. "He would view this as charity, another high-handed stunt from my prat of a sibling." The detective lingered in the shadows of Speedy's faded red awning, rocking on his heels.

    "I can only imagine what hell would ensue should I interfere in John Watson's personal affairs," Mycroft intoned dryly. "Surely you know me better than that, Sherlock."

    A miniscule tilt of one side of his mouth gave the suggestion of a smile; a hint and no more. He was at work, after all. Mycroft Holmes couldn't be bothered with  _feelings._ "I am far too busy working to pay attention to the paltry affairs of your friends."

   "Right. That's what I thought. I said as much to John, incidentally. He might just consider the possibility moot, as it were, based on my opinion of your priorities." The detective moved closer to the bright sunlight that edged the awnings' shadow. "And, also, you are a bloody prat, after all."

  "Ah, yes." Pale orange highlights burned in Mycroft's hair, cast from the low lighting of the corridor. "Back to childish insults, I see. Well, as I have stated, I have a very busy schedule this week. Shall I bid you adieu?"

   "That would be best, yes, of course." Sherlock's long legs shuffled forward, and then paused. "Mycroft?"

    "Yes, brother mine?

     "Thank you," Sherlock grinned, and disconnected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't completely done with this chapter...but I had to go pick up my daughter. Hasta luego, amigos.


	66. Mid-afternoons and Midnight, Respectively - Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please have patience...the vignettes continue. Basically, dear reader, be prepared for a couple of chapters of this. I need to bring the relationship further away from Mary's death...so, yeah.
> 
> Incidentally, my daughter (a genius, obviously) spoke her first word at 8-1/2 months..."flower." It was in the era before everyone and his uncle had a cell phone attached to the hip. I didn't catch it on video. But I did call my husband into the room, where we stared at her in wonder. Soon after, I began researching MENSA requirements (Lol, not really). Anyway, some infants speak relatively early. I figured Watson would be one of these children, considering Sherlock's incessant stream-of-consciousness rambling. Exposure, and all that. Enjoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of the mouths of babes, brothers, and Mind Palace Mycroft.

Five months and twenty days after the death of Mary

     Mrs. Hudson frowned in confusion, holding comparison samples. The burnt orange pineapple print was nice, not too showy...but the green fleur de lis she'd re-wallpapered the foyer - considering the amount of bold colors running the walls, might clash.  _Hmmmmm...._

     The diminutive widow of a drug dealer perked her ears at the sound of approaching footsteps. Sherlock, certainly, and oh! Little Rosie. The infant's high-pitched, sing-song babblings never seemed to stop.  _That one. Takes after Sherlock in that regard, I'm afraid, blood relations be damned._ She smiled sweetly as he pushed through the black door.

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson chirped, "Stay here. I need your input." She brandished the cards as he approached warily.

     "Mrs. Hudson, surely you don't think that  _I_ am a competent judge of stylish home decor. My version of redecorating involves a pistol, several rounds of ammunition, and yellow spray paint."

     Rosie attempted to launch herself out of the stroller, headfirst. The purple sippy cup bounced to the carpet, oozing sticky apple juice. The Terror of Trafalgar Square shrieked in fury. Craning her neck back toward her jailer, limbs flailing in aggravation, she hollered "Dahn! Dahn!"

      The two adults in the room jerked their heads in unison; first at Rosie, and secondly at each other. This was becoming a habit. Sherlock cocked his head. Mrs. Hudson's eyes lit up absurdly in excitement. "Did she..." she chirped.

     "Say the word 'down'?" Sherlock replied in wonder.

     Once again, they focused on Rosie. "Watson?" The lanky man challenged, "Did you say that you wanted down?" 

      Now arching her back in utter abandon, she let out an imperious string of "DAHN! DAHN! DAHN!" Smiling crookedly, she then flung her torso forward and affectionately smacked his trousers with a set of juicy hands. "Lahk. Dahn."

     Sherlock crouched dizzily besides the stroller, eyeballing his charge as if she were an exotic species of orchid. "No. It's too early, Watson. You didn't just say my name." He peered up at his landlady. "Hudders? Did she..."

     "She absolutely did, Sherlock. And we must keep this a secret from John.  _He_ should be the first person to hear his child speak. The man's missed enough of his daughter's infancy as it is. I'd rather not we hurt his feeling." Mrs. Hudson bent over to caress the baby's head. "Good girl. Clever girl. I understand what you said. Now when your father gets home, you call him "Da-Da". Got it, Sweet-ums? Da-Da."

     Rosie let out a complicated assortment of vowels and consonants, pleased to be holding the attention of two of her very favorite people. Sherlock snickered softly and deftly unbuckled her safety straps. "Alright, Watson. Down you go."

******************

     Greg paced along the pavement, silver hair short and electric in the midday sun. He'd received an unexpected invitation by Sherlock's brother for lunch. Until the recent past, Mycroft's contact had signified trouble of one kind or another.

     In the beginning of their uneasy relationship, Sherlock had been the topic of choice. How was he doing...what was he doing...did Lestrade suspect relapse, and if so, who was Sherlock's supplier? Finally, how was  _Lestrade_ going to sort out Sherlock?

     Mycroft typically placed the DI in the hot seat, claiming that his relationship with Sherlock had been irreparably damaged. Any intervention Mycroft was offering would be immediately refused. It was obvious that the DI, on the other hand, dangled an irresistible carrot on his stick. Access to crime scenes was his to grant or deny.

     By hook or by crook, Lestrade held the key to Sherlock's continued sobriety. Mycroft demanded that he use it. Threats of consequences need not be discussed, due to the men's mutual understanding; _consequences would follow_ any inaction or failure. It was implied from Day One.

     Now, though, the conversations primarily revolved around John. Whether the issue revolved around John's health, John's impact on Sherlock health, or vice versa, "John" was the usually the first word emanating from Mycroft's lips.

     Occasionally, the topic centered on John and Rosie, and the baby's impact on his little brother. Mycroft worried - constantly. Lestrade found himself the bridge between the Holmes brothers, and recently, John Watson as well. He recognized the fact that the responsibility sat well on his shoulders...and frankly, he felt honored to be trusted by such intelligent men

     Unexpectedly, the mens' clandestine relationship had developed into something far different. Mycroft had relinquished his stranglehold on Lestrade, much to the detective's relief. He seemed softer, less frozen. Smiles reached his eyes. Mycroft's laughter sounded natural, not sarcastic or subtly threatening. Greg tried to parse out the reasoning behind Mycroft's evolving humanity, but as yet it remained a mystery.

     And, today...what had that been? The tone of their meeting had bordered on convivial, at complete odds with the norm. Dining with Mycroft generally involved answering a series of questions à la Spanish Inquisition between the appetizer and the dessert. Information was taken, not shared; granted, not given. Any perceived recalcitrance on Lestrade's part was met with steely blue eyes, silky (yet slightly sinister) laughter, and thinly veiled threats. Mycroft was a man of many attributes; verbosity was among them, effusiveness was not.

     Mycroft's sunny demeanor spooked Greg into bewilderment. Where had the real Mycroft gone, and who was this impostor? Did addiction run in the Holmes bloodline, because Mycroft had certainly seemed high?!

    Greg was at a loss for words. Discussion revolved around John's timid first steps to sobriety. Mycroft fumed at John's job loss, although as the head of his own personal (if public) fiefdom he accepted the necessity of the action. The man then opined on the fortuitous timing of John's home being sold. Now, Dr. Watson had a significant sum of money on which to draw, at least for the foreseeable future. The widower had been afforded time to heal, time to mourn. Time to set his life straight.

     Greg busied himself sprinkling vinegar on his chips and then set about in dedication consumption of his meal. He laid the plate bare, hamburger included, before re-establishing eye contact with Sherlock's brother. Otherwise, the DI just  _knew_ suspicion would radiate from his guileless brown eyes. Greg accepted Mycroft's tacit ownership of certain actions. Mycroft accepted Lestrade's implicit understanding. It was best to just leave some things unsaid. Mycroft, forever doomed to be an insidiously interfering prat, was also a very kind man. 

     Greg wiped him mouth and looked up. He grinned in a mixture of pleasure and amusement. So you can teach an old dog new tricks.

     In addition, to Lestrade's utter shock, Mycroft inquired after Molly's well-being. Greg's jaw practically hit the table in surprise. The elder Mr. Holmes, actively engaging in polite conversation without some nefarious and secretive agenda? _He_   _has to be high._ There was no other logical explanation. Molly, back to work at the mortuary, should have fallen off Mycroft' radar now that she had served her purpose.

    And then... _and then..._ Mycroft had asked after baby Rosie. Or, as the not-so-minor British official put it, "The Watson Child" (spoken in all caps, Lestrade swore, when recounting the event to Molly). Greg almost dumped scalding hot coffee down his trousers, he was so flummoxed.

     The man had gazed pleasantly at the DI whilst he rambled on about Rosie's many adorable attributes. Mycroft paused, then politely inquired after Rosie's latest developmental accomplishments - not to mention height, weight, number of visible teeth, visual, spacial, and aural acuity, verbal acumen, and receptive language skills.

     Mycroft genuinely expressed interest. He even cooed (like a normal human being) when shown Rosie's latest photos from Greg's phone. Lestrade was chuffed to the nth degree. Wonders never cease.

     Greg continued to stroll, moving past his parked car on purpose. He wanted to enjoy the soft kiss of the sun on his face. 

  ****************

Five months and twenty-five days after the death of Mary

     John rolled on his left side. Moonlight pierced into his bedroom with fierce intensity, highlighting the edges of his daughter's cot. She slumbered within, cheeks flushed in the depths of slumber. Thus far, his child's life had been a juxtaposition of forces; love and hate, generosity and greed, joy and grief. Tonight, in this room, Rosie's body was defined by ribbons of the purest light interlaced with an infinity of shadows. 

     He shifted restlessly for several minutes, finally giving up the idea of going back to sleep. John's current sleep pattern only offered sporadic periods of rest. Too many nightmares whilst asleep, too many memories when conscious.

     The doctor eased his stiff body out from under the blue duvet and toed on his slippers. Avoiding the noisier of floorboards, John scooped up the baby monitor and clipped it to his pajama bottoms. Navigating via muscle memory, the little man descended the stairs to arrive at 221B proper. Home.

     The sitting room was dark and dead quiet. John flipped on Rosie's monitor, and it crackled sullenly before establishing a link with it's mate up above. The sound of her sweet, steady breathing projected from the speaker, piercing straight into his heart. Sweet child. Sweet, brilliant child. John hesitated, simply listening to the music that was his daughter's life. She was a miracle.

      So. He should...what? Have a hot cuppa? Watch a little telly? John didn't know. What he did know was that sleep was no longer an option. He ached for the freedom to go out for a walk. Obviously, leaving the flat at all not an option. He so desired a drink. John groaned quietly rubbing tender fingers down the fronts of his thighs.  _This is so fucking hard. I'm never going to make it._

     "John." Sherlock's disembodied voice came from the direction of the couch. 

     The doctor arched back in fright, shoulders shoved up to his ears. "Jesus, Sherlock!" he hissed with exasperation. "Why didn't you say something when I came down? I nearly just pissed my pants!"

     The leather of the couch creaked companionably as Sherlock maneuvered into a seated position. "I didn't want to frighten you. But then I saw that you, that you were -"

     "Having difficulties?" John said, self-mockingly.

     "In need of company and a cup of hot tea, I was going to say...or would have said, before being so rudely interrupted." The lanky man snorted. "So, John?" 

     "Yes, Sherlock?" John replied, flicking on the kitchen light as he shuffled on in. His flatmate's lunatic bed-head hair prompted an amused snort of his own. "Been on the couch long?" 

     "Can I have a cup of tea, please?" The detective said, ignoring his friend's attempts at diversion. Sherlock studied John from his post at the couch. Not good. John's shoulders were as high as a puppet's on a string, and his hands were obviously causing some discomfort.

     "Well, yes and no. I was conducting a thought experiment, but the results were inconclusive, so I...well, I guess I just fell asleep." The detective was a bit shame-faced at the admission. Hands the size of pie plates reached up to fluff up his locks, to no avail.

     "Earl Grey?" John asked, and plunked a tea bag in Sherlock's cup without bothering to wait for a response. "With a bit of milk?"

     "Why bother asking? You already know the answer." Sherlock teased.

      John hummed, and set to puttering about the kitchen until the kettle was ready. "Because it's polite, you wanker. We're out of Jaffa Cakes, so boo-hoo for you." He tucked a mangled box of chocolate digestives under his armpit as he made his way into the shadowy sitting room with two steaming mugs. "Now move your bloody big feet out of my way before I dump this over your lap."

     Sherlock blew a raspberry in John's face, but accepted his tea gently enough. "Thank you, John." 

     John settled on the couch without leaning back. His expression was a mystery, his face cast in shadows. "So." He murmured, blowing away steam, eyes looking down.

     "So." Sherlock echoed. 

     The men sat drinking tea in silence to the simple rhythm of Rosie's breathing. Eventually, John pushed his mug down on the coffee table and subtly minimized the distance between them when easing on back. Sherlock drained his mug and placed it up against John's. Incrementally, Sherlock slid closer to John. It was a dance, this thing, this nameless thing that they did. Both wanting to touch and be touched in return. 

      Sherlock held out a palm and John his his right hand on top. Softly, so very softly, Sherlock cradled John's hand in his and raised it up to his lips. John's heart began to race with the uncertainty of the moment. The detective's generous mouth blew warm air over John's knuckles, and a spastic run of shivers clawed up John's spine.  _His mouth. His mouth is so beautiful._

      Long, limber fingers manipulated short, stiffened ones until John's palm was facing upward, cupping Sherlock's face. John shook. He couldn't help it, his emotions ran too high. "Shhh...John. Be easy. Be still." Petal-soft lips brushed sensitive skin, and then John's hand was enfolded into Sherlock's by his side.

    The men sunk into each other's warmth, not speaking. Sherlock realized with a start that Watson had set the pace for all three; he, John, and the baby all breathed in unison. Be easy. Be still. He wrapped an arm around John's torso and pulled him inward against his chest. John nestled into Sherlock's larger frame. The widower wasn't asleep, but wasn't quite conscious, either. He had slipped into a state of blissful mindlessness.

    Be easy. Be still. John could be both of those things, when surrounded by Sherlock.

    Be easy. Be still. Be loved.

     

  End of Part 1 --- Mind Palace Mycroft will put in an appearance in Part 2

    Cheers!

 


	67. Mid-afternoons and Midnight, Respectively - Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mind Palace Mycroft and bum bum BUUUUUUM....Mary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "Absence from those we love is self from self - a deadly banishment."  
> -William Shakespeare
> 
> Boldness be my friend.  
> -William Shakespeare
> 
> ************  
> "The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "Hell is empty and all the devils are here." - William Shakespeare

Six months and two days after the death of Mary. 

     Sherlock reclined in his squashy leather chair, his clothes looking just as wrinkled and colorless. The detective posed Buddha-style; legs crossed, eyes closed, hands folded in his lap. John settled in across from him, daughter silently slumbering upstairs and the sun long gone. It was peaceful - now.

     Two hours ago the residents of the flat were beset by the urgent need to sneeze. Moist, spastic sneezes, forcibly expelled; explosions of mucous, spittle, and other unmentionable bodily substances flew into the air, onto the floor, into crooked elbows and hands...and in little Rosamund's case, all over the faces and necks of her two male companions.

     Sherlock had made an error in judgement.

     One of Lestrade's more famous cold cases revolved around a set of killings at an upholstery shop. Four men and three women were found murdered and arranged for sickly display, on August 17th, 2005. Whilst the case seriously marred the newly promoted DI's track record, Lestrade could have cared less. The reality of the situation remained in that the killer(s) remained at large, and could strike again for reasons unknown.

    It plagued Lestrade. The DI was pushing Sherlock to examine the situation and sparse evidence. Perhaps the deductive genius might be able to parse through the events and see what he could not. It was worth a try, at least. Lestrade might get more sleep.

   The owner, opening up for a new day's business, had come across the gruesome sight and fainted dead away amidst a row of linty industrial sewing machinery. Fortunately, she'd been followed fifteen minutes later by a very prosaic book keeper, who kept her head and phoned the police.

     All seven victims had been laid face down, bodies stuffed between the cushions of the seven individual sofas currently being re-upholstered. Their bodies, naked and swaddled in duct tape, had offered a miasma of perplexing information; none of which provided any promising leads.

    According to the autopsy reports, all seven were suffocated to death within the span of one single hour. Even more disturbingly, the lint-caked airways of the victims proved that they had been murdered using the cushions from the furniture on which they'd been laid. Either NSY was dealing with an improbably efficient murderer, or much more realistically, the crime involved two or more perpetrators.

     Lestrade's team was unable to determine a link between the murder victims and each other, or with any of the employees and/or owners of each individual sofa. The The victims ranged in age from 72 to 18, from all socioeconomic and religious affiliation. No fingerprints, hair, or other DNA evidence of the perpetrator was ever discovered, despite the liberal use of duct tape. This travesty of senseless death ate at Lestrade, and he wanted to lay the case to rest.

     So, in good faith, Lestrade had delivered seven fabric samples as well as the depressingly small files of data collected as evidence. Unbeknownst to the DI, he also introduced a significant number of the mould spores Stachybotrys _chartarum_  into 221B. Happily multiplying on moistened fabric fibers, the mould triggered an immediate allergic response in all three residents. Watson had fared the worst.

    Soon, harsh coughing, explosive sneezes, and the frightening gasp of Rosie's constricted bronchial passageways filled the air. Sherlock's laissez faire approach to taking Work home had harmed Watson. Sherlock Holmes, intellectual mastermind, had royally fucked it all up.

     He had some thinking to do. 

    As a child, a special treat was to take a train with Mummy to visit the Zoological Society of London's London Zoo. Sherlock's most favored exhibit was at the Blackburn Pavilion, a red brick block of a building constructed during the Victorian era to house reptiles.

     Now, over 50 species of tropical birds cheerfully thrived, freely careening about the habitats in all their flamboyant glory. Expertly constructed to mimic native environments, entering the exhibit felt like crossing into another dimension - one in which Sherlock's odd behavior was not the main attraction.

    Hand in hand, the happy pair wandered aimlessly, purposefully lost within its dreamy confines. It had been a sweet, if short-term respite from stress.

     Now, sequestered in the depths of stored memory, Sherlock sat cross-legged and pondering. His bony back pressed hard against the cool metal railing, a respite in spirit this time. Piercingly sweet music echoed about, birds filling the exhibit with song.

    Unexpectedly, he heard footsteps approach. To the man's annoyance, it wasn't Mummy who was joining his restful jaunt, but his infernally interfering brother. Mycroft slipped from the misty cloud forest and onto the meandering wooden boardwalk. Gingerly, ever the dandy in his burgundy wing-tip shoes, Mycroft fastidiously maneuvered around the assorted splatters of stringy white bird droppings.Typical. "Had a bit of a mishap, have we?"

    "Shut up, Mycroft. Nobody invited you here. Go away and invade somebody else's synaptic pathways." Sherlock spit with annoyance.

    "I'm only here because I have to point something out. You know as well as I that this situation could have ended far differently. What were you thinking, in examining contaminated evidence whilst in the presence of the Watson child?"

    "They were simply  _fabric samples_ , Mycroft. It wasn't my fault that they weren't stored properly. They hadn't  _presented_ as evidence infected with _Stachybotrys chartarum._ It was that moron Anderson's ineptitude in performing the simplest of tasks. Honestly, the twat can't even seal an evidence bag without mucking it up." Sherlock twisted to look up at his brother. "And at any rate, how was I to know that the evidence room had been contaminated by a leaky septic pipe? That was ages before I started the Work and you know it."

    Mycroft twisted his narrow lips into a semblance of a smile. He circled around to settle in front of his little brother. "Irrelevant, Brother Mine. The child was still exposed. What is the fabric had been inundated with Anthrax, and -"

    "Oh,  _do_ shut up, Mycroft. Stop being such a drama queen. Go away. Get out of my head, _shoo!_ " The lanky man snarled as he flicked out a dismissive hand, miffed that his elder brother's logic had once again trumped his own.

    Mycroft tilted his head back and chortled with amusement. "It isn't I who deigned to be the drama queen in our little family, and you know it." He straightened his back, aiming that piercing blue gaze at his troublesome middle sibling. "Now, stop your sniveling and listen."

    Sherlock huffed, but conceded. He rose from the floor and turned his back on the man, unwilling to face Mycroft whilst conceding the point. "Fine, you nosy bastard. Say what you came here to say, and then maybe you'll be free to start a war or some such nonsense."

    "Well, brother mine," Mycroft huffed, reveling in all his magisterial glory, "I mean to say..." He sniffed, brushing invisible lint off his cuffs; an affectation he employed to feign indifference. Sherlock perked up at the tell. Whatever half-arsed topic Mycroft was about to discuss, Sherlock's response was of consequence.

    Sherlock sensed the man's movement behind him. He peered over his shoulder to observe Mycroft, studying a delicate bird with brilliantly violet iridescent plumage. The tiny creature, suspended on a branch arching over the boardwalk, cleaned its curvy beak off on its breast. "The Splendid Sunbird, if you like," Sherlock offered, smiling at the avian specimen in delight. It was one of his favorites.

     "I do like. Splendid, indeed." Mycroft murmured, transfixed on the bird. "Sherlock, there are two issues at hand. Firstly, you can no longer afford to take health risks in your flat; it is simply too dangerous for John's daughter."

     "What I do in the privacy of my own flat is none of your business, Mycroft, and you know it," he snapped.

     "Is it really? I think not, Little Brother. You no longer live alone. You have a responsibility toward the remaining Watson clan for maintaining their safety whilst within the confines of the flat," Mycroft stated candidly. 

     Sherlock paced restlessly about, bird droppings or no. "I concede your point." His generous lips pursed in consideration. Mycroft's balding pate glistened with perspiration in the tropical heat, fringe wilted.

    Sherlock's lips twisted into a semblance of a smile. Not so long ago, Mycroft had remarked upon what his "memory technique", could and could not do. Nonsense. His mind palace, a vast warehouse of knowledge (not to mention spectacular scenery), was an excellent place in which to hold inner debates. Mycroft lacked imagination; therefore he dismissed Sherlock's mental construction as impossible.

    "So, Dear Brother, allowing for your remarkable intelligence, do you have a solution? Obviously the flat is a no-go."

     Said Dear Brother gaped at said Nosy Bastard in incredulity. "Wait. Are you intimating that I give up The Work? It is all that keeps my brain sane and you know it."

     "No, I would never dare do such a thing. No. What I am suggesting is that you find other arrangements for your experiments. Disaster will surely strike if you do not."

     The world's only consulting detective nodded. First issue resolved, a logically derived solution. He paused, scraping white muck off his foot. "Agreed. So, the second issue?"

     "Secondly, Sherlock, it is time you determine what role you desire in the life of your 'blogger' and the child."

     "What role? I am John's friend and his flatmate. His partner in solving crime," Sherlock huffed. "What other role could I possibly occupy?" 

     "Oh, really, Sherlock. I'm in your brain. Be honest. Is this all you long for with John?" Mycroft clucked his tongue. "Lying to yourself is not healthy."

    Spinning in fury, Sherlock strode over to Mycroft and pressed up him nose to nose. "I simply cannot ask that John concentrate on anything other than recovery and reconnecting with his daughter! To do otherwise would be selfish. It doesn't matter what I want. What matters is _John_."

    "Yes, yes, John _matters._  But are you aware of what matters _to_  John? Have you asked him what he wants regarding your relationship?" His brother tutted. "Stop faffing about and do something about the situation. As it is, you're in stasis. It's not good for either of you."

    Sherlock shuffled backward, ashamed. "I don't know how. It's too soon after Mary. And, what if he doesn't want me that way? My forcing the issue might induce him to leave!" He wailed morosely. "I couldn't bear it. Not anymore.  _I love him._ "

    "Yes," Mycroft demurred, "I know you do. And as far as Rosamund goes...you love her too."

    Sherlock nodded miserably. "I can't bear to lose them, Mycroft. He...she...she's under my care. I promised."

    "Be brave, Little Brother. Good things come to those who wait, and you've waited a very long time indeed." Mycroft abruptly evaporated back into the mist, leaving Sherlock bewildered and once again alone in his own head. He shook his head dazedly and exited his mind palace. The still of the flat was telling. It was late...or very early. 

    John snored softly in his armchair, chin propped up on his chest. Drawing his phone from the recesses of his trousers, the detective calculated that he had been lost in his musings for over three hours. It was half twelve. Time to turn in, after checking on Watson. She rose with the sun - as did all other occupants of the flat, perforce.

    Unexpectedly, Sherlock's phone buzzed. It was Mycroft. He stared, nonplussed. Mycroft, in addition to possessing a slightly superior intellect (although Sherlock would cut off both thumbs before admitting it), often seemed prescient as well. Striding swiftly, Sherlock entered his room and shut the door. 

    "A little late for a social call, Mycroft," he grumbled into the mouthpiece.

    "And yet you are wide awake, Brother Mine. However, in consideration of the hour, I shall be brief."

    Sherlock snorted in amusement. "Really?"

    "Yes. I've been charged with offering you a proposition."

    "Mycroft, brevity is the soul of wit. Please be witty, for my sake." Sherlock groused.

    "Ahem. It came to my attention a short time ago that you experienced some _ahem_...health difficulties in your flat," his brother said.

     Sherlock cut in with a snarl. "Mycroft, damn you, are you spying on me again? I swear to -"

     "I am calling to suggest a solution to this little problem. The powers that be are in need a master chemist for specimen analysis, for specific and sensitive circumstances. You've been offered a job, as a consultant, of course.

     However, due to your...proclivities for experimentation, free access to a certain highly sophisticated laboratory has also been granted. It's located right here, in downtown London." Mycroft paused, waiting. Silence. The older man sighed heavily. Must Sherlock always distrust his big brother's motives?

    Sherlock blinked. Mycroft was a very powerful man in reality. Mind Palace Mycroft couldn't offer anything but sass and his snarky opinion. Had his own incessant drug use altered his brain? Had he mutated his beleaguered DNA to the point of precognition? Illogical. More likely, this was an example of the micromanagement Mycroft so often employed in the handling of his nuisance younger sibling. Prescient, though, slightly spooky.

    "Exactly how often would my expertise be required? This shan't interfere with The Work, Mycroft. I won't allow it."

     "I honestly don't think that it shall, Sherlock. At any rate, you need a proper and  _safe_ environment for your experiments. I'm offering you free reign at the lab, and a fair bit of pocket change as well." Mycroft boded his time. Sherlock's ego prevented him from instant acceptance, despite the attraction of the offer.

     "I'll give it a go, Mycroft, on a trial basis. Don't expect me to stay, understand. I will need to inspect the equipment, and -" Sherlock started as his brother cut him off.

     "I'd be a fool to expect any such thing. But I will pass on the message. I assume you'll be contacted shortly with the address." Rubbing his aching head, Mycroft's teeth flashed in an approximation of a smile. Disconnecting, he headed to bed, satisfied. Alicia lifted the duvet, and he crawled in, snuggling up in her soft warmth.

 

 ************

 

Eight Months and sixteen days after the death of Mary

 

    Mary stood, screaming at the television screen. It was grey. Flat, meaningless, impenetrable. Dead. She raged. Howled. Paced the perimeter of her confines, looking for something, anything to trigger the telly to light up.

    Nothing. 

    A crackling, crunching sound struck her senses like a shotgun blast. Spinning on her heels, Mary scrambled back over to the telly. The screen had been crazed into thousands of triangular shards of glass. She wailed helplessly. This was Hell, she just knew it; not Purgatory, but Hell.

   A blinding rectangle of light blazed from behind the nursing  station. It lit up a series of doors that had not been there only a moment before. With dread dragging her onward, she crept around the obstruction and peered into the doorway. 

    A dim line of cheap furniture and a nurse's station filled the new room. A large television backed up against the wall. She raced over to it, finding a remote jammed up in the console. Mary flipped on the telly, waiting with baited breath for a familiar face to emerge.

    A very familiar face emerged.

    His image had been burned into her heart not so very long ago. His tortures features filled the frame side to side, top to bottom. Blood spurted from between his teeth, painting his lower jaw and neck shiny scarlet. His eyes shot to hers in horror. It was A.J.

     Mary screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, to all of those out there mourning the stupid, senseless violence happening...I am so sorry. Our president is an narcissistic, egomaniac asshole and said some really offensive and insensitive things while tweeting (wow, how unusual). The normal, non-orange citizens of America are by your side. Hugs, a very short person.
> 
> https://www.zsl.org/zsl-london-zoo/exhibits/blackburn-pavilion


	68. "Slowly I turned...step by step...inch by inch..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John shed their inhibitions. This is it, guys. It only took 67 chapters to get here! Watson turns one. Uhhh...Lemolly? Grooper? Mostrade? Whatever. Smut ensues.
> 
> "How many things by season season'd are to their right praise, and true perfection." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "Nothing will come of nothing: speak again." - William Shakespeare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, kudos to whomever can tell me the reference for the title...without Google. And triple kudos to someone who can do it who didn't originate from the US. My siblings and I repeated this little gem on a daily basis when we were goofing around. Yeah, we were weird kids.
> 
> Also, apologies for those who are gracious enough to continue following my story. I have been unwell as of late, and finding it hard to concentrate on writing. I hope I made it worth the wait!

Ten months and sixteen days after the death of Mary

 

     Watson celebrated her first birthday as a motherless child. Whatever scraps of memory she'd maintained of Mary lay sequestered, lost in the recesses of her mind. The infant was more than loquacious, as Sherlock repeatedly observed (loudly, and usually in front of Mycroft). Nevertheless, despite Sherlock's claim that she was a semantic savant, Watson never spoke the word "Mummy."

     His dutiful flatmate hung colorful photos of Mary in the flat - or rather, in his little family's shared bedroom upstairs. A framed photo of Mary graced the table at her birthday party, abutted against the cake. John and his daughter even blew a kiss to Mummy's photo each night before bed time. John tried - he really, really did.

     Nevertheless. Watson did not speak her mother's name. No "Mummy", no "Ma-Ma", no "Mary".

     Sherlock didn't know what that meant. 

     If John had any notions about the anomaly, he kept them to himself.

     Since Sherlock was Sherlock was Sherlock, he kept a running developmental log on the little girl. The detective's observational data of Watson was categorized into three main groups: physical growth, cognitive development, and infinitely fascinating behavioral trends. Several subsets existed, naturally, and had come to occupy 48.4% of the western quadrant in his mind palace. He designed the space to lie directly adjacent to John's northeast wing, allowing for ease when storing conjoined data sets. The on-going project was eminently enjoyable.

     This precious font of data on Watson, due for re-organization, was his top priority for the morning. Pending new casework or an unforeseen milk-and-nappy run, the detective planned to make order in the mounting chaos of Watson's files directly after his 6 a.m. tea. 

Mental snapshots of Watson's specs and unequivocal brilliance went as follows:

   **WATSON - 12.02 months, 71.5 cm in height, 8.2 kg in weight.**

**Eyes: Dark blue, large in circumference. Extremely beautiful and expressive by current cultural standards. Irises rimmed in midnight blue, almost black. Approximately 4 cm lashes on upper lid 1 cm on bottom lid.**

**Cranial Circumference: 17.75 cm - obviously encasing a superior brain**

**Erupted deciduous teeth: Both central incisors present on upper and lower jaw. Lateral incisors in the process of eruption - slight fever and sleeplessness noted. Tolerance of pain in moderate range.**

**Audible Frequency Range: 20-19,500 Htz in left ear, 20-19,572 Htz in right.**

**Expressive Language as Follows:**

                    "Da-Da", "Lock", "Huds", "down", "me", "oh-me" (translated by John to be  "Give me that now, paltry human, before I roll on the floor and start foaming at the mouth."),   "sammitch" (sandwich), "mik" (as in "Lock, mik!" - or, again per John translation, "Sherlock, you lazy arse, go buy the damn milk!")

                      **Note to self: Teach Watson to say "Da-Da, buy milk."**

                     **Receptive Language Skill Level: _currently being modified; experiments proceeding as scheduled_**

Watson was a labor of love, from nappy changes to midnight feedings, to active (and frequent) mucous removal. She filled a void in his heart. Every so often, Sherlock sensed his heart flood with a deluge of joy. The detective surmised that it was inevitable that one day he'd burst into a shower of sentiment, incapable of holding it in. This all-encompassing love overwhelmed him; it left him breathless and vulnerable.

     Prior to Watson's abrupt (and rather messy) entrance into the world, Sherlock had been ignorant of said void. Children, as it were, were not his area. He viewed them as underdeveloped, illogical, and boring; the human species in it's larval form. They were not worthy of his valuable time.

_Not. My. Area._

    In the deep and incredibly private reaches of his mind palace, Sherlock admitted to perhaps being a tad short-sighted. Then again, one's experiences do alter one's perspective, and as such it is impossible to predict the effect unknown variables may have on an individual's character.

    Right.

    All three Watsons had altered Sherlock's character in ways he had not predicted, a fact which disturbed the detective on several different levels. He'd failed to deduce his own heart, and as such, anything was possible. Honestly, it still shocked the man that he possessed one. Unforeseen circumstances, indeed.

    The detective unfolded his legs like a overlarge locust and rose the couch. He winced as the leather sucked at the sticky skin of his calves. He'd spent far too much time this week in a stupor, lost in the corridors of the mind palace. _Time to take off this damnable dressing gown for a shower and a shave._ He was sweaty, sticky, crusty with salt, and as John had so graciously pointed out earlier...bloody damn rank.

     Sherlock washed up quickly, catching the familiar sounds of John's feet moving about in his room. The doctor was settling his daughter down to sleep for the night. Soon, his best friend would be shuffling downstairs for a cuppa and a bit of crap telly. John was a soldier in every respect, including a regular bed time. If not on a case, John was in bed before half eleven. Sherlock needed to hurry.

    But, it was hard, not knowing how to proceed; fearing to make a mistake. Before John, Sherlock had crashed about London with nary a care. As a younger man, he'd rummaged through the seedy underbelly of the city desperately searching for his next hit, whether it be in chemical or intellectual form. William SS Holmes was an addict, and he needed his fix. He would take it any way he could, and at any cost; miscalculations be damned.

   Other than his older brother - and let's be honest, Mycroft could fend for himself quite competently, thank you very much, no one depended on Sherlock. No one needed him, wanted him, _liked_ him. Sherlock was a useful tool in solving crime, if one could tolerate his personality for the time it took to conduct an investigation. It didn't take a deductive genius like Mycroft to see what he'd been up to...all one had to do was follow the chaos left behind after so many burnt and smoking bridges.

On the fated day of their introduction, John managed to captivate Sherlock without even trying. The doctor's straightforward, blue-eyed gaze shot straight through Sherlock's well-designed guise, puncturing his heart; a common-sense arrow more lethal than Cupid's.

     If only Sherlock had not been blindingly stupid and self-centered! He was consumed by desire for John. Oh, to touch him, to hold him; to snog him senseless, to tease with his tongue, leaving John hard and panting for more. The image of his flatmate, eyes burning with want, mesmerized the detective. He fumbled about his day like a fool, lost in a stupor of lust.

    To Sherlock's horror, his penis now stirred to life in appalling disregard for propriety. His traitorous genitalia functioned outside conscious control, oblivious (and frankly uncaring) of the catastrophic nature of a prominent erection.

    He grew hard upon the sight of John's exquisite behind, whilst he bent to pick up his daughter. His pulse rose to dizzying speeds, as John tenderly brushed back Watson's unruly blonde locks. Tantalizing fantasies of those gentle hands on his own body...touching his fevered flesh for purposes of pleasure...it was too much.

    In his mind's eye, Sherlock saw John bent over his chair, back arched, gorgeous arse poised in the air - Oh, God...John ready and aching to be pummeled with his best friend's cock. A whimper of pure lust escaped Sherlock's lips. 

_No! John is a widower. This is wrong! Christ, look at me, practically gagging for his cock. Fuck! Oh God... the taste of him, dripping wet and ready to orgasm. No!_

_Bad! Bad thoughts. Bad! Oh...I am lost._

   Toweling off and scowling at his perfidious penis, Sherlock slapped shaving foam onto his face. Subjecting his face to the painfully dull razor he'd nicked from the bin, he sliced open the tip of his adam's apple.

     Evaluating the wound in the mirror, Sherlock waged that he'd more likely severed an artery. Blood trickled down, obscenely bright against the soapy whiteness. "Blast!" He groaned, ashamed of this inability to focus on the simplest of tasks. 

_Idiot. Dolt. Sentimental fool._

     Sherlock rinsed off the area, only to watch as blood welled up and dripped down his neck. A small pool of red lodged in the hollow at the base of his neck. The detective clattered about, in search of the styptic pencil stored under the sink. No luck. 

     Rising, the detective smacked his head on the edge of the porcelain sink. "Buggering, bloody hell!" he wailed in agony. 

    "Sherlock? Are you dying in there?" John snorted in amusement from his vantage point in the kitchen. "Did your poncy shampoo attack you? Do you require medical assistance?"

     The detective glared at himself in the mirror. Bloodied flecks of foam bisected his neck, complimented by a florid pink welt poking up from the border of his sopping wet fringe. A poor specimen of a man, if there ever was. "Sod off, John. I bumped my head. I am fine."

     Scuffling sounds in the kitchen turned into scuffling sounds in the hallway. "Are you sure?" John sniggered, nose pressed against the old wooden door. "You could be concussed."

     "I  _am not_ concussed. I am fine." Sherlock said sulkily. "However...do you know where the styptic pencil went?"

     "Are you bleeding?" the doctor cried, no longer joking. "Let me in. Exactly how hard did you hit your head?" John pounded on the door when met with Sherlock's stony silence.

     "I cut my neck whilst shaving," he blustered, aware that the words "cut" and "neck", when combined within a sentence, sounded less than reassuring. "Do not worry. I will cope on my own,  _thank you."_ Considering his two-timing bastard of a penis, Sherlock would risk major hemorrhage before opening the door in this state of undress. Towel aside...a bit not good.

     Despite Sherlock's obvious well-being, John found himself lingering at the bathroom door. Hot breath enveloped his cheeks, nose now tucked against the crack along the frame. A different kind of fear clutched in his stomach, whilst a more pleasant sensation stirred down below.

     A mental picture arose in his mind, Sherlock wet, skin flushed from the tropical steam from the near-scalding showers he insisted on for "maximum removal of excess filth". A vision of his beautiful friend, dripping, drops of water beaded on his chest and meandering down his torso. _Oh God...I am going to hell._

     "Sherlock..." he breathed, "please. Let me...see."

    The fact of the matter was, the widower felt lonely. John's sense of duty brought him back to Mary's bed, and more to the point, his unborn baby girl. The marriage had not rekindled. Two liars, two strangers play-acting in kind. He'd been bereft, his body untouched and unloved. A long, lonely future lay ahead for him, years of continuing falsehood and betrayal. Intolerable. 

     A snide, accusatory voice murmured in his mind, one he hadn't heard in days and days.   _Ahh...but wait, dearest John,_ _whose fault was that really?  You went back with full knowledge of who she was, what she was. Instead of repairing your marriage, you sought comfort elsewhere with another woman. It is_   ** _obviously_** _ **your** fault that -_

John shot back from the door, and slammed into the opposite wall Stumbling, the little man made his way back into the kitchen. "No! Shut up. Stop it!" He pleaded with the speaker...himself? His conscience? "Get out of my head!"

     Shaking, John scrubbed at his face with his hands and hunched over in agony, crouched by the sink. He hated himself, and he hated this voice from within. John didn't know if it was his conscience playing devil's advocate, or he was still certifiably ill, vestiges of psychosis from the alcohol poisoning. Whatever the case, this hateful agent of contempt plagued him whenever his body's baser needs surfaced.

    A door slammed open from the hallway. Tender hands cupped his shoulders, gently drawing John upwards and inwards until he stood cradled flush against Sherlock's body.

     The detective's knobby knees peeked out from under his damp, drooping towel. John set his mind to tracing down the sinewy muscles of his calves to his feet with his eyes; anything to distract him from this debilitating self-hatred.

     "John!" Sherlock spoke urgently into his ear, wanting to jolt John out of whatever nightmare he'd been pulled into. "John, look at me."

     His flatmate, mute and shivering, tucked his face into his shoulder, obscuring his face with mortification at his bizarre behavior. It was impossible to gaze into Sherlock's eyes. He was horrible. Horrible!

     "I can't...please...let me go." A whimper of pure humiliation escaped his lips, and suddenly John was pushing away, squirming in a desperate attempt to flee.

     "No, stay with me, John. We can figure this out together." The detective eased the little man at arms' length from his torso, bending down to catch John's focus. 

      John heaved, breath escaping in a huge rush of warm air. He nodded, unable to speak. Sherlock wrapped his gangly arms around his friend, preventing a potential escape attempt. They eased as one over to the couch and hunkered down into its squashy depths. "All right?" Sherlock murmured into John's ear. John relaxed into his friend's clutch, hooking an arm behind the man's back. His skin felt dry and hot - and soothing.

     "Just breathe." Sherlock whispered. "You're fine. You're ok." He reached up and stroked John's neck, combing his fingers in the hair just above. 

      Long minutes later, John disengaged from his friend. The little man scrutinized Sherlock's face, attempting to glean his friend's take on his going to shambles.

      "What happened, John? I was perfectly fine. I was never in any danger...look." Sherlock bared his forehead for inspection, poking at the bruise. "Hardly a bump. And my neck...nothing to worry about."

      John's face crumpled and a rush of blood suffused his cheeks. "I can't explain, Sherlock. It's too...you wouldn't like it. I want...but I shouldn't, it's wrong." He twisted away, pushing up from his position.

     Sherlock gently but forcefully pushed John back to the couch by his shoulders. "Please. Please stay with me. You know I...care for you. I'm concerned." He swung his head back on his neck, lips pursed in agitation. What he had to say, be confess to John - his need to save him. John must stay safe, whatever the cost. Sherlock's cavernous torso deflated as a great sigh billowed outward.

     Tangled locks obscured the detective's eyes as he tilted back down. He squeezed them shut, aware that his words might send John flying from his arms, from his life. Sherlock's voice wobbled, pitched high as a school boy's. "When you came home, back to the flat, I told you something. I said that I loved you. Do you remember?"

      "Of course I do. Yes. And...I told you the same thing. I...Christ, Sherlock. I can't bear it any more. I love you. I..." he keened, unable to hold the truth back from his lips. "I love you. I need you. I... _want you."_  John's hands shot to his head and his stubby fingers yanked at his hair. "But it's  _wrong,_ inappropriate. I'm a widower, Sherlock! It's so disrespectful to Mary, to her memory -" The doctor cut off his words to reach up, sweaty hands seizing the back of Sherlock's head and latching on to his beautiful lips. 

      John's mouth sucked at Sherlock's. This wasn't a chaste, "You're my best friend and I love you" kiss. John's lips opened up and he gasped, tongue slipping out to lick Sherlock's open. He jammed it inside, reaching deep into his mouth as if to consume Sherlock whole. The widower's hands clawed through Sherlock's hair, in a frenzy of need.

     The detective let out a muffled "Oooomph!" as John bombarded his mouth, shocked into submission. Seconds later, he responded in kind, whimpering wildly as he wrapped his own tongue around John's. Sherlock's mind went off-line, he was all feeling and loving and touching. He stroked up and down John's back, shoving heated hands under John's shirt in delirium. "Oh, God!" he yowled, pulling away from his friend's mouth. "I want you, I want you, you don't know how I  _want_  to touch you and love you and..." 

     The widower groaned desperately and pushed himself back. "Oh my God, when I went back to Mary, it...we...nothing happened. I didn't feel the same way. We didn't touch. I'm not sure I even loved her anymore. I was so lonely! I wanted what I couldn't have, so I cheated and -"

     "John! This wasn't your fault!" The detective's voice was furious, scandalized.

     "Yes it was, at least partly. I made my vow..shit, sorry...and -"

      "Yes, well, so did she. I don't believe the vows included  'And I promise to shoot the best man in the heart because I am an assassin.', did they?" Sherlock grinned wryly. "I believe that would dampen most relationships, or am I wrong?"

     "God, yes. I am a wreck, you know. I'm an English man, sod it! I don't handle drama, I only create it." John sighed.

     "Surely you are joking? You're in love with a drama queen!" A snort erupted out of the drama queen in question. "Now. Are you ever going to forgive yourself, or do you plan on continuing this path of destruction until you self-immolate?"

    "I...I guess not. I love you, you irritating arse. I'm crazy about you! God, I want you so much!" John panted into Sherlock's chest.

    "Then, come with me," groaned his friend turned lover, "and you can teach me how to go about it"

     Sherlock stood up, yanking John along by his hands. "Mycroft was right, whatever I may have said. I. Ahem."He cleared his throat roughly, "I am a virgin, John, excluding one disastrous and highly unpleasant encounter in college. Physical affection has never been my area."

    The doctor stared. He wasn't shocked or surprised. Sherlock was a solitary creature at heart, tolerating a few honoured soul into his personal space. "This will be an adventure, then, won't it? The two of us, against the rest of the world." Smiling, he grasped Sherlock's hand and led him into his room.

     

    *********

 

     Across town, in a tiny apartment, Lestrade was relieving his lovely girlfriend of her knickers. Molly groaned feverishly, liquid heat pooling in the folds of her sex. "God, Greg, Oh my God, you feel so good!"

    Silver hair glowed in the light of Molly's candles. Candles made things more romantic, or so she had heard. "You're so lovely, my dear." He whispered into the softness of her belly. "I want to eat you all up, starting now." His tongue left a hot trail of moisture in it's wake. He blew on it, inciting Molly to arch up in anticipation at what was to follow.

    "Stop teasing and start eating!" She whimpered. "You're so good, Greg. You make me feel sooo good."

    A filthy, crooked grin slid onto his lips. "Mmmm, I do, do I? Best to get started, then." But, instead of moving south, the DI nibbled one hip, then the other. He nuzzled into her mons pubis and inhaled in delight. "God, Molly, you smell divine."

    "Less talking, damn it!" she groaned, writhing against his mouth.

    "Beg me. What do you want?"

    "Ahhhgh...I want your tongue in my fanny! Do it, please! I want it so much!"

    "Again." he smirked, savoring the way he could rile Molly up.

    "Greg!" she smacked his back loudly. "Now! Please! Lick me! Fuck me with your tongue!"

    "You are such a dirty, dirty girl, Miss Molly Hooper. Such a filthy girl. I think I need to clean you up." Finally slipped down, he lifted her knees up and spread them apart. "Wider, my dear. I want to see  _everything."_

 _"Nnnfff -_ Ah!" she cried as he licked past her folds straight into her body. 

     The DI pumped his tongue as deep as he was able - one, two, three times...and then slipped back out to suck on her nub. He alternated rapid flicks of his tongue with long sucks, paying close attention to the sounds emanating from Molly's throat. Eating bean was in his division.

     Greg to two fingers and touched them to the edge of her sex. She clutched at his hair, yanking it hard in frantic need. "Oh...God...it feels so good! Please, Greg, fuck me with your fingers!"

     The DI circled her rim, one of her special places, tenderly stretching her muscles in preparation for what lay ahead. She cried out, wailing, and he followed her cue. Greg pushed in up to his knuckles, stroking up the sides of her to reach her most sensitive areas.  His tongue sped up, flicking and licking until he felt her spasm once, twice, three, and four times as she screamed and arched off the bed. Hot liquid coated his fingers and smeared across his mouth, and he growled. Greg allowed his fingers to rest in her until she stopped heaving. He slid them out, only to lick them clean as he savored her taste. "I love to do that to you, Molly, you have no idea how much."

    Satisfied, Molly smirked like a Cheshire cat and reached out her arms.  "Come here, lover," she said. Now it's my turn to do that to you."

    Greg's eyes flashed with lust as he complied.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I prefer Grooper. It flows off the tongue much better than Lemolly.
> 
> Sorry. It's three a.m. on my night shift, I'm hopped up on Mountain Dew, Skittles, and Ritalin (prescription dose only, folks), and I have five more hours to go. I have to amuse myself somehow. ;~P
> 
> Also, sorry I didn't go further with John and Sherlock. I didn't have time to do it justice. Next chapter, I promise.


	69. Deliverance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just what is says, folks.
> 
> FYI - I am going on vacation for 10 days. I will try to keep writing (although it might have to be *gasp* pen to paper) and then post when I get back. Cheers! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "What fates impose, that men must needs abide;  
> It boots not to resist both wind and tide." -William Shakespeare  
> (3 Henry VI, 4.3.60), King Edward IV to Warwick

     John grabbed the baby monitor and set it firmly on the bedside table. He usually cranked it to the maximum volume, so it sounded like he was monitoring the sleep of Darth Vader. Now, however, he muted it to silent. The green and red lights flashed when Rosie moved or his daughter woke up, and at any rate, she had a cry like a police siren. This moment was his...his and Sherlock's.

     Sherlock, striding in the door with a frantic shine in his cerulean eyes, squealed to a stop. The scene devolved into a series of impressions, snapshots, really. Between each bright flash of data, a blank period of mindlessness existed in his brain. Emotional overload? Bombardment of sensory data? Whatever. It wasn't important.

           Bed.       

     John.     John by the bed.

            John unbuttoning his ugly plaid shirt.

                Ugly plaid shirt, flung to the floor.

          * _ **Dear God** * _

John, tearing off his own shirt as if it was              

          on fire.

   John, hungry eyes laser-focused on his                   quaking belly...scanning lower.

  Lower.

            Lower.

  Wild light in his hot ocean eyes

         John's chest, naked and heaving. Nipples pebbled, tips highlighted                           in the glow of the lamp.

                        * ** _Bloody hell*_**

        John, breathing hard, and licking his lips.

    John, launching up, body parallel to his body -

              chest to chest, pelvis to stomach.

 Strong, hot hands grasping his hips.

     "Oh, God, John.  _John."_

   John's cock, rubbing helter-skelter

            along the length of his thigh.

    * ** _John! John! John!*_**

John's hand, pressing tight against           the length of Sherlock's cock and

                              pulling upward.

                             " _FUCK!"_

    Sherlock's brain haltingly came back on-line with a flicker of mental static. Reality settled, a unified series of impressions. He was melting, burning, cock lit on fire; John's body felt impossibly hot.

     Sweat slicked their chests. John slid upward on the balls of his feet, brushing in against Sherlock like a silvering cat. "Hi," he murmured, moonstruck as he scrutinized those odd, brilliant eyes.

    Sherlock gingerly stroked his long fingers up the length of John's sturdy arms. "Hi...John." he smiled crookedly, tilting those marvelous, kiss-swollen lips."How are you?" He curled his hands delicately over the tips of John's shoulders, holding them there like enormous epaulets. He wanted so much...too much.

     Sherlock was at a loss.

   He didn't know how this all worked.

     "Brilliant. I'm brilliant. Never better...Lover Boy." John hummed with satisfaction.

      Sherlock's eyebrows flew up past his fringe. "Really, John?"

      "Really. My lover...my clever...clever, brilliant,  _fucking gorgeous_ man." The doctor smiled, quirky and sweet. "Mine. _My man_."

    An ungodly shade of pink flooded up Sherlock's neck and suffused his cheeks with color. "You want me?"

    John's smile vanished, leaving behind a disconsolate frown. "Yes, Sherlock." He touched a thumb to his friend's lower lip. "These months have been the worst I've ever dealt with...and - fuck, I invaded Afghanistan." he finished, trying to keep it light.

    Sherlock merely inspected John's face, waiting. 

     "I would have died without you. I...you are my rock, Sherlock. I love you. I've always loved you. You...you are everything to me. I am so, so sorry..I hurt you, Sherlock. I have a lot of making up to do for my selfish behavior."

    Sherlock's eyes flashed in sudden anger. "Shut up, John. Just shut up. I'm sorry I even asked. I know you.  _I know you._ You've paid your dues three times over. Just.." he shook John by the shoulders, "Just kiss me. Make love to me John." Sherlock nuzzled the top of John's head. 'Love me. Show me how much you love me."

     Sensing his best friend's unease with the physicality of sex, John swiftly took charge. "Come here. I love you. _Let me show you_  how much I love you.". 

   The doctor had never been shy of physical love. He was hands-on by nature. Reaching in, John inhaled Sherlock's scent as if it was oxygen. Sherlock giggled as John snuffled into the arch of his armpit. "John! Whatever are you doing?"

     "Smelling you. I want to smell you, to taste you...to eat you all up." He licked a wet stripe across Sherlock's chest, stopping to latch on one nipple and tug gently. 

     "John, oh my God, oh God...keep doing that. Don't stop. Never stop." The detective groaned desperately, head thrown back and eyes fluttering closed. "Fuck...John..."

     The doctor wiggled, trying to ease his discomfort. His prick was painfully hard, jutting up so stiffly he envisioned it ripping straight past the flies of his jeans, just to say hi. "I like when you swear. It's sexy."

      Sherlock crinkled the bridge of his nose. "Sexy? I though swearing was considered vulgar." 

     John slipped his compact body even closer, shoving into the hot space framed by Sherlock's long arms. The doctor lifted shaking hands to grasp Sherlock's neck and spine. He continued reaching, scratching upward to thread into Sherlock's rat nest of hair. The detective felt a delicious frisson shoot straight from his spine to his cock.

      "No. It's sexy. Your voice makes me so fucking hard. Keep talking. Tell me what feels good to you." 

    John grasped his hair and yanked it back, exposing Sherlock's lengthy neck. Hot, wet lips nibbled up from his lover's prominent collar bone to the cords at the side of his neck.

    "Shit...fuck..oh my...FUCK!" Sherlock howled. "Yes, I like this, John. This is good!"

   Reversing directions, John pulled the detective's mouth down to his and licked, licked, licked Sherlock's plush upper lip as if it was a key to unlock the Pearly Gates. Apparently it was - Sherlock's mouth stretched out to encompass John's own. Tongue tasted tongue.

       John was in heaven.

   Heat. Liquid heat. Sherlock's cock, jerking in his trousers in a bid for release, pushing against John's stomach.

    Continuing the brutal assault on Sherlock's mouth, John dropped his hands and unbuckled, unzipped, and  _yanked_ down the offensive trousers. His mate's groan shook John into a frenzy of need. He dropped to his knees, thrust Sherlock's prick his mouth and sucked  _hard._

 _"_ Nnnrfff..hnnnn...please! Please! Oh God,  _oh fuck!"_ Sherlock's hips pumped helplessly as he spilled his load into John's open mouth without warning.

     John tried his best, but popped off Sherlock's cock on the belief that his lover's orgasm was so forceful that come might just start shooting from his nose if he didn't disengage. John, coughed, gagging awkwardly until he regained his composure.

     "Sorry!" the doctor gasped in a rasping voice. "That wasn't my finest moment." John snickered, wiping his mouth. "Although, this is new to me, too." He climbed to his feet, taking a moment to adjust his aching cock.

     Sherlock, head pitched back and touching his upper back, offered no pithy comment. Peering up, the doctor discovered that his mate's eyes were rolled up so far that that he could have examined his brain if so desiring. Sherlock was - gone. Just gone. The sexual novice had flown to a separate place entirely... possibly La-La Land.

    "Sherlock? Love? Are you with me?" John asked, poking the taut muscles of his belly and then giving him a shake.

     Nope. No response. Bloody hell. He'd dealt with this oddity of Sherlock's so many times in the past. Bloody rotten timing now. Sighing, John slipped off his jeans and his pants. Once again, forced to wank off alone.

     Occasionally, Sherlock became utterly overwhelmed by sensory input. In John's long experience, one of several scenarios were put into play.

     Sherlock might spend hours (or days) cataloging the data into manageable segments. He then stored them painstakingly in his mind palace. Sometimes Sherlock stood where he'd planted. Sometimes, he meandered to the sofa in a non-verbal fugue and assumed "The Position".

      Or, conversely, Sherlock came to with a startled cry, grabbed his coat and bolted out the door to disappear for hours (or days.) Even Mycroft was hard-pressed to find him.

   Or...he would slink to his room and lock the door, avoiding John for hours (or days).

    Well.

    Sherlock was naked...so, no running out the door. Hopefully. Also, no to meandering to the couch. Hopefully. And, well, John was standing in Sherlock's room. Would Sherlock walk out and lock _him_ inside? Might be awkward for childcare purposes.

     There was nothing for it. John grabbed his cock. Ogling his beautiful friend and lover's naked body, John revisited Sherlock's epic first blowjob and came so hard he saw stars.

    And...flashing lights lit up the room. Rosie had just woken up. John giggled at the silliness of the situation, and bent to pick up his clothes.

 

****


	70. Hello, Boys...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realizes how much he's been holding back on letting himself be happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello to all of you fine readers who have stuck with this bit of nonsense I've concocted. Having been in the very hot, dry, and dusty confines of Utah, I have not had a chance to look at the story.  
> Having said this, when coming back to it I realized what a colossal f-up I have made with paragraph structure and spelling. To those of you who have followed my journey, THANK YOU. I revised the grammar starting from chapter 1. Whew. That took a lot of time. I do blame some of the problem on the fact that I was using my phone to post...but mostly I just f-ed up.  
> Anyhoo, hopefully I will do better from now on. I really need a beta. Also, a Brit-picker. Although, I will never be able to write "focusses" or "defence". When I see the word "defense" written as "defence" I think of people removing fences. So.  
> I am hoping to get back on track and finish this monstrosity now that I am not home-schooling my daughter. Freedom!!!  
> Thanks again.

     John puttered about in his room, giddily compiling up the detritus of childcare as Rosie settled back into sleep. Wet nappies...dirty wipes... empty bottle. He felt euphoric...sated.

      Loved.

      _Sherlock. I've had sex with Sherlock. Almost. Christ, he's so beautiful._

 Three facts came to John's attention on the very first day of their acquaintance. One, multiple strangers assumed Sherlock Holmes was his boyfriend. Two, Sherlock Holmes was intriguing, exciting, and ridiculously gorgeous. Three. Angelo thought candles made things more romantic.

     Of the three, only two facts continued to plague him. If he had a quid for every time he'd protested "I'm not gay" he'd be...richer than he was right now. 

       _Sherlock. I have bloody had sex with Sherlock. My Sherlock. My man._

The doctor had a slap-happy grin on his face. It was so good just to feel happy without feeling guilty. He was loved. He'd been forgiven. He'd forgiven himself. He'd been able to forgive Mary. 

     It was all good.

     Sherlock was hot as hell.

     It was time to check up on his boyfriend.

 


	71. The Importance of Being Earnest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the continuing stooooory...of a former army surgeon who has gone to the dogs...er...detective.
> 
> Actually, it's mostly just smut. Nice smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone guess where the reference for the chapter summary came from? Again, an American television reference...sorry to all of you others...or maybe not sorry, considering you all have functional governments and and I am incredibly jealous.
> 
> Hint: you have to be over 40 - probably, unless you watch YouTube. Or have kids. Or have kids who watch YouTube. Whatever. It was one of my favorite shows.
> 
> In fact, Benedict Cumberbatch (who?) appeared in a cameo performance on PBS with two characters from a sister program created by the same person. If this is at all interesting enough for any of you to pursue, better look it up quick before our Philanderer-and-Thief defunds PBS.

   "Here is what love is: a smoke made of lovers' sighs. When the smoke clears, love is a fire burning in your lover's eyes." - William Shakespeare

 "I will live in thy heart, die in my lap, and be buried in thy eyes." - William Shakespeare*

 

   With an synchronous snap of his broad, bony shoulders, Sherlock was thrust back into the reality of 221B. Oxygen flooded the detective's brain, effectively rendering him slightly disorientated and wobbly as jam.

    The genius blinked rapidly and forcibly maneuvered his great head upright. Sherlock groaned in agony, hyper-extended muscles and tendons conveying their irritation at such abuse. Still somewhat faint, the detective gingerly panted into his cupped palms to balance his blood gases. The effort was useless, the caveat being a reminder that he hadn't yet cleaned his teeth.

     Rotating his head, the detective observed that whilst his neck might be aching, the rest of his body was delightfully relaxed...rather _satisfied_ , in fact.

      _If a penis was capable of sentiment, he swore his would smile with joy._

     In the process of re-orientation, the genius scanned his immediate environment with scrupulous attention to detail...per mind palace "exit strategy" protocol. The room was very quiet, and he was very...

    _Alone! I'm alone!_ _John is gone!_

_Wait...was John ever here?_

He rubbed his thigh in consternation. They  _had_ been intimate, had they not? 

     _Oh, pleeeaaase tell me that was real? I wasn't engaging in delusional sex acts, an indulgence of naughty thoughts whilst skulking in a corner of the mind palace, was I? (As if that hasn't happened before, you complete idiot)_

Observing an alteration both in his basal body temperature and most particularly, in the texture of his trousers, the genius scrutinized the environment to determine the causative agents of said observations.

    Hmm. Oh. Ah. He was naked from the waist on down. Huh. The pants and trousers he'd chosen that morning encircled his ankles; his hands had been stroking bare thigh.

     _T_ _his explains things._

_My trousers are around my ankles. Surely that implies the sex was...real? Please?_

     The sound of a familiar set of footsteps drew his attention away from such useless and hypothetical speculating. John had been up in his own bedroom. Now he was descending the stairs.

     Sherlock squinted, head cocked in concentration. He tracked the shuffling sounds of bare feet with more than a little trepidation. John had entered the sitting room, quietly crossing over the carpet. What did John want? Why had his friend left his room?

     The detective's long, lanky limbs were suddenly enveloped in goosebumps. He simultaneously shivered and broke out in sweat. Sherlock's body flooded with adrenaline. He couldn't breathe; he was drowning in the deluge.

     Sherlock felt claustrophobic, overwhelmed, and practically consumed by nervous energy. John's soft footsteps shuffled down the hallway and close to his bedroom. Did John need the loo, or did he want something, _need_ something (someone)...else? 

     Sherlock just didn't know. He didn't know, but he oh, _so_ wanted... _B_ _loody hell._ Conscious of his naked bum, the detective scrambled to address the awkward situation. He yanked up his manky pants, wrinkling his nose in disgust at their sticky dampness. _Bloody, buggering...hell_. He would just have to clean up at a more convenient, i.e. private, time.

     The detective straightened and smoothed out his trousers - just in case. Just in case the sex had not been real. _Please let it have been real..._

     John trod right past the loo and up to his bedroom. Sherlock's heart skipped a beat.  _Bloody, buggering...fucking hell..._

     "Sherlock?" John called in a hushed voice, gently tapping the heavy oak door with the tips of his fingers. "You back in the land of the living?"

     Unsure he would be able to respond with a steady voice, Sherlock elected to finish buckling his belt before responding. He minced closer to the door whilst trying to collect his composure. Timidly, easing the door open, the detective smiled jerkily down at his friend.

    Sherlock's eyes darted quickly, scanning over the planes of John's pleasant face. He searched for any infinitesimal scrap of data, anything which might indicate whether or not they had, in fact, got it on. 

    John let fly a thousand-watt smile and grasped Sherlock's wrinkled shirt in both fists. Reeling in the lanky detective, John released his shirt only to snake those small (but very capable) hands up the long length of Sherlock's neck.

    Cupping the detective's marvelous face, John shed a deep sigh of satisfaction. Thumbing over Sherlock's breathtaking cheekbones, he lightly traced up to their peak. The detective shivered, helpless in John's sensual ministrations.

   Sherlock whined high in his nose. His eyelids fluttered shut, senses overcome by John's tender and teasing touch. The doctor drew tiny circles around his temples until Sherlock felt fairly hypnotized. Abruptly, John changed pace by plunging strong fingers deep into the detective's fluffy hair.

   John tugged tightly, and Sherlock lost all control. He leaned into the doctor's grasp and groaned from depths of his stomach. John's groin twitched with lust. He smirked maniacally, drawing his hands in tight, tight, tight...anything to pry more cries of pleasure from Sherlock.

    Ultimately, John had to let go, if only for the reason that the rest of Sherlock's body was being ignored. John slipped his fingers out Sherlock's hair to fondle his clever and delicate ears.

     It was quickly apparent to the doctor that  Sherlock's ears were sensitive to touch. He rounded his thumbs down and around, rimming the whorls of cartilage again and again to the sounds of Sherlock's whimpers. John's hands shook along with the rest of his body. He was burning with love.

     Eventually satisfied that he'd mapped Sherlock's special spots, the doctor drew his fingers further down. They meandered in a lazy trail under the edge of the detective's jaw and up to his lips. Sherlock smiled shyly when John discovered patches of unshaven skin. 

      "I interrupted you, didn't I? You can take care of this later, when I am done having my way with you." John whispered up against the detective's lips, scratching the fuzz. "Right now I am going to play you like your bloody violin."

      The doctor licked slowly, softly, over Sherlock's gently parted mouth. John pulled back to regard his friend's eyes, and a frisson of awe flared up through his spine to the base of his neck.

     Sherlock's expression flashed from dumbfounded to devastated to radiant. His body was enthralled with pleasure, kaleidoscope eyes blazing with all the colors of the rainbow. He looked wild, unfocused and overcome with an overload of sensation.

    The detective looked bloody unhinged.

    The genius's upper torso and face had pinked up, and a single bead of sweat graced the philtrum above his upper lip. Sherlock darted out the tip of his tongue to taste the salt from John's fingers. The men moaned in unison.

     It was all going to be okay.

     Sherlock was utterly beautiful. Wonderful. John's lover and best friend.

      _My man._

     He gently pulled Sherlock down, face to face. Inhaling his lover's heady scent, the doctor nuzzled his nose into the crook of Sherlock's elegant neck.

     With an indelicate tug of sharp, white teeth against Sherlock's fitted shirt, the upper portion of the detective's breast lay suddenly and deliciously exposed.

     They simultaneously caught the *tink* of a small black button, bouncing off the hard, wooden floor. Sherlock inhaled faintly whilst his knees went all wobbly. "John, what are you doing? Oh...John."

     John paused, letting out a salacious smirk at the vision of so much smooth, creamy flesh to explore.  _Oh my God, he's so gorgeous! I want to taste every inch and lick into every crevice. Oh my God, oh my God, oh my Gooooood...._

_I'm going to rip all his clothes off, starting with this poncy dress shirt._

"I want you. God, how I want you. Let me touch all of your body," John breathed fervently. "Please, can I help you undress?"

     The doctor's cock sprang to attention, and John wondered vaguely if he was going to come in his pants like a spotty-faced teenager. He hoped not. Not when this delectable creature stood helpless before him like putty in his very capable hands. Not when this delectable creature had yet to place his own much larger, and very capable hands on John.

      "Sure," Sherlock said weakly, "yeah, sure, that would be good." Legs all akimbo, he leaned up against the door, attempting to keep his composure. The extent of the detective's attempts to bare all was simply to stand up and let John do his will.

      John nibbled along one delicate collarbone to the other, pausing to lay a hot tongue into the hollow that lay at the center. Sherlock stood frozen, cock bobbing and twitching after each nip of his new lover's teeth. A tiny squeak exited his lips. He forgot to breath. He forgot to think. Sherlock forgot how to move.

      The detective observed, and he saw.

      The sex had been real.

      John had reconciled with his long-forgone desires... _and_ _had preformed fellatio on Sherlock's desperate virgin cock._

      Hold the phone, was he still considered a virgin? Granted, John had removed half his clothes - the important half, no less. After which, the doctor had preformed the act of fellatio with his typical, painstaking precision and skill. And, he'd achieved orgasm - Christ, had he ever.

     Sherlock imagined that one should expect no less than spectacular head from this former army surgeon and all-round horndog. John had brought him to a new level of ecstasy.

       _Ohhhh...it was so good. John's mouth on my cock, oh God..._

      But then, no actual anal penetration had taken place, so...The question remained unanswered.

     "Hi there, Lover Boy. Good to see you back in the land of the living." John laid a tender, close-mouthed kiss upon the most beautiful mouth in all Britain. Gorgeous curves, plump lower lip, rosy red from his early ministrations. "Are you ready for Round Two?"

     "Yes, John, God yes," Sherlock groaned madly, finally able to function. Grabbing John's arse and giving each cheek a hard squeeze, he pleaded, "You must teach me. Teach me everything - everything you know."

      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Doing a little bit of google research, i.e. take this info with a grain of salt, "to die in" refers to an orgasm. So, the second Shakespeare quote refers to someone coming in someone else's lap. Hmmmmm....


	72. A Penny for Your Thoughts...Five Quid if They're Dirty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does his research.
> 
> Hey, really sorry that this has been so long to take to post. I have had a bit of writer's block. OOH! I've been Sherblocked. Nyuck nyuck nyuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "When I saw you I fell in love, and you smiled because you knew." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "I love thee with a love that shall not die, till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "...can one desire too much of a good thing?" - William Shakespeare

   Twelve months, fourteen days after the death of Mary

 

John was a very good teacher. Patient and non-judgmental, John let Sherlock explore the physicality of love at his own pace. It was difficult at times, for Sherlock. Too much touch set his senses alight, and the lethal combination of emotion and ecstasy often overwhelmed the detective's brain until he short-circuited completely.

     John, too, lost his nerve. He'd forbidden himself from expressing certain feelings for so very long, and for all of the wrong reasons. His entire world view was in part based on the idea that Dr. John Watson, former military surgeon, was born 100% heterosexual, chased skirt on a daily basis, and wore a scar on one shoulder and a chip on the other.

    They were both damaged creatures, a unit of two navigating into unknown territory. Whilst a thrilling adventure, allowing their vulnerabilities to show was terrifying. 

   Despite the delicious and distracting evolution of their relationship, Sherlock remembered to keep a keen eye on John's fragile psyche. He deduced when to lean in for a snuggle, and when to give John some space.

   The detective had been so apprehensive that first night, witnessing John's emotional upheaval in the kitchen. Every episode of psychological withdrawal, an oft-used defence mechanism, left Sherlock nauseous and afraid. The detective had nightmares where John curled into himself like a snail and was lost, unwilling or incapable to communicate forever.

    Sherlock remained disturbed, even after their coming together. Nurturing John felt akin to holding a baby bird between his fingers; easily damaged and liable to slip and fall. He pledged (no more vows, thank you very much) to keep tabs on his love, whether it be in person, by phone, by text, via a friend, and even through Mycroft, when necessary. He religiously checked in, even when - and _especially_  when, working on a case.

    For his part, John set about refining his already remarkable instincts regarding Sherlock hyper-sensitive senses, sex being an unknown variable. The doctor focused on noting and then interpreting Sherlock's more subtle tells. Observation evolved into communion, a parley of heartbeats and kisses and heated sighs.

   John periodically paused whilst in the midst of a heated spate of snogging, affording Sherlock a moment to order his thoughts. Only after these little breaks would John carry on. The doctor privately promised (but did not vow, never vow) to always keep tabs on his love's sensibilities. Sex was overwhelming by nature, and Sherlock habitually sought the safe and ordered solace of his Mind Palace when undone.

    They did what all good partners do - they looked out for one another. 

    Moving forward with the relationship had been a long time coming. They didn't flaunt this new status as a couple, but neither did they feel ashamed to admit it. The intensity of the situation made it a private affair, a fanciful and romantic dream to cherish whilst still awake. If Mrs. Hudson seemed a bit more giggly and solicitous of their privacy, it was to their mutual benefit. Sherlock no longer bothered with the dignity of sheets.

    And then, the sex. The sex, the sex, the  _sex._

    Embracing the merits of "total immersion" learning, the pair spent every waking moment in the comprehensive study of human anatomy. Well, that is to say, every moment not otherwise occupied by a pestering big brother, an obstreperous toddler, trivial notions such as "sleep" and "dinner", shopping for milk, and God forbid, The Work. 

     Sherlock rather enjoyed the lessons, lab assignments, and the  _homework..._ Sex with John epitomized the perfect argument for continuing education.   

    The orgasm, in Sherlock's well-educated view, should be designated an evolutionary success alongside the development of opposable thumbs and the cerebral cortex. In his more personal musings, orgasms felt like a gift bestowed by an angel, albeit a short one in this case.

    John... _oh, my God. John's talented hands. John's hot mouth. John's beautiful, miraculous, exquisite and so very clever cock....Ohhhhh, John......_

     John. Brilliant John, experienced John, feisty John, "Three Continents" John. John, his one and only lover. John Watson, the man Sherlock Holmes desperately loved and breathed in like oxygen.

    John, secretly amused at having the upper hand, so to speak,  indulged Sherlock's every whim. As a result, the detective was provided with a rich dossier of sex, rife with salacious detail.

     This was data to be savored, categorized, organized, indexed, and best of all, leisurely reviewed at a later date - preferably when he wasn't sporting a major hard-on and pleading with John to _touch me...Christ Almighty, please touch me, I need you, I can't wait anymore_ _._..    

    However, the detective's post-coital attempts to parse through the reams of information (i.e. _bloody_ _marvelous_  physical stimuli) he'd collected remained something of a challenge. The main reason can be stated as follows: Orgasm leads to brain dysfunction. Sherlock had done his research, which went as follows:

     _Ahem._

                        The Orgasm

    The orgasm, a miracle of evolution, inspired procreation by physically stimulating the brain's pleasure center. In other words, with the aid of some primordial engineering, orgasms made hominids shag like caffeinated rabbits. Orgasms increased the human population and prompted further leaps in evolution. Quite efficient, all told. 

   And then, humanity had to get its big mouth involved. Sherlock discovered that the concept of the orgasm matched a moniker in many different languages, the name of said animal remaining tied to cultural perceptions. The Irish terminology in particular prompted an eye roll of exasperation. Of  _course_  the Irish managed to equate sex with violence.**

       _orgasm - _ 1680s, "sexual climax," from French 

      _orgasme_  - or Modern Latin 

 _ orgasmus - _ from Greek orgasmos "excitement, swelling,"

      A derivative of  _organ_  - "be in heat, become ripe for," literally "to swell, be excited"

      related to  _orge_  "impulse, excitement, anger"

      from PIE root  _wrog_ - "to burgeon, swell with strength" 

      also sourced from the Sanskrit  _urja_  "a nourishment, sap, vigor"

      _ferc , _ _ferg_ -Old Irish, meaning "anger" Also used to refer to other violent excitements of emotion or other bodily functions.

       Referenced to linguistically as a common noun ( _the orgasm_ ) or intransitive verb ( _to orgasm_ ), the word "orgasm" had been given a uniquely uninspiring definition as found in the Merriam-Webster dictionary:                   _Orgasm(v.)_  - "The rapid, pleasurable release of neuromuscular tensions at the height of sexual arousal that is usually accompanied by the ejaculation in the male and... _and something_ _about women and blah blah blah blah..._

Sherlock mentally opined that the wording had in fact been composed by frigid librarians; post-menopausal, virginal, spinster aunts - women who owned several cats and played bridge every Sunday.

     The fact remained - what was primarily a set of specific muscle spasms no more unique than a sneeze rendered Sherlock mindless with pleasure.

     The long-neglected somatic efferent fibres of his pudendal nerve, in hibernation for the majority of their existence, now received solicitous attention. Each touch of John's - touch being a relative term * _lick, suck, tickle, taste, stroke, thrust*_  aroused these tissues and prompted the bulbocavernous and ischiocavernosus muscles to rhythmically contract.

    Penile muscle contractions prompted the release of ejaculate through the urethra. In contemporary lingo, John made Sherlock shoot his wad like a teenager.

     John. A love-making god, sending wave after delicious wave of pleasure screaming across the synapses of his peripheral nervous system to smack into the cerebellum, lighting up the mesodiencephalic transition zone to stimulate the A10 dopaminergic cell group.  

     A mind-blowing orgasm affected the region of the brain located directly behind the left eye, defined as the  _lateral orbitofrontal cortex._ This specific mass of brain tissue short-circuited  during an orgasm, shut it down, and went bye-bye.

    The most notable aspect of this particular neural response to said orgasm was that the lateral orbitofrontal cortex was the the region where reason and behavioral control took place. An orgasm effectively made one lose one's mind.

    Snuggling with John in post-coital bliss, the detective envisioned liquefied neural tissue merrily squirting out of his cock alongside millions of spermatozoa. Personally, he believed this to be the singular logical explanation for the large quantities of ejaculate he expelled - not to mention the complete loss of mental function forthwith. 

    Sherlock discovered that the brain, during an orgasm (under MRI observation) 95% of the brain resembled that of a person under the influence of heroin. Despite this fascinating aspect of the orgasm, Sherlock decided that John really didn't need to know.

    "Hnnnng...nffph...yes, yes, _John_ _...HHHNNG.."_

      _So much data. It's so good, God, so good._

 

At this particular moment, the following categories of sexual activity Sherlock demarcated in the Mind palace will be noted:

      1. Fellatio (obviously)

          A. Received                                                  

          B. Bestowed                                                        

          C. Methods of handling ejaculate*                        

      2. Hand Jobs

          A. Masturbatory                                                    

          B. Mutual                                                              

          C. Joint.                                                                  

          D. Frottage

      3. External anal stimulation

      4. Internal anal stimulation*

      5. Erogenous Zones

      6. Kinks, not mutually exclusive of sexual fantasy*

                 *further data collection necessitated to support detailed analysis.

      

_Hmmmm. I need more data. Much more data._

      Sherlock supposed a secondary series of trials might be useful in providing a -

     

      " ** _Sherlock_** , are you even listening to me? Bloody hell. I've been talking to you for the last five minutes, you berk! Here... _here_ , take it, just take it..." Lestrade squealed to a halt and slapped the thick manila folder into his consulting arsehole's feeble grasp.

    The DI snorted in frustration, eyeing Sherlock's vapid expression. "Just borrow the bloody file, and if you can be _bothered_  to review it, let me know what you think, yeah? I'm going to grab some lunch."

      ???

      "Excuse me? Lestrade?" Sherlock blinked, struggling to regain his composure. They stood shoulder-width apart behind a foul-smelling dumpster, flies buzzing in slow figure-eight's around what was obviously a corpse. At some point,the sky had begun to drizzle. Cold rain was dripping off of his nose and puddling around his loafers.

     Grabbing Lestrade's wrist to read his watch, Sherlock calculated that ten minutes had gone by whilst he was otherwise occupied. Occupied with thoughts of sex. And John. And John having sex. John having sex with him. 

    _Crime scene. Third tramp bludgeoned to death in six months. Right._

"Off you go, Graham. I'm on the job, the game is on," he made a halfhearted gesture in direction of the corpse, "and you can trust in my deductive abilities. I'm sure I'll have some brilliant observation to point out before you're swallowing your last sip of coffee." Sherlock clutched his chilly fingers against the soggy beige file and sent rivulets of water streaming down it like liquid from a sponge. "Uhm." He smiled weakly. "Ta!"

     Lestrade just shook his head slowly, and strode off to find his car. He couldn't wait to finish with this damnable day and go home to Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Brain Activation during Human Male Ejaculation" - Gert Holstege, Janniko R. Georgiadis, Anne M. J. Paans, Linda C. Meiners, Ferdinand H. C. E. van der Graaf and A. A. T. Simone Reinders  
> Journal of Neuroscience 8 October 2003, 23 (27) 9185-9193
> 
> www.britannica.com/science/human-nervous-system/The-reproductive-system
> 
> http://www.etymonline.com/index.php?term=orgasm
> 
> **Nothing personal, people of Ireland. I just know a lot of very angry people of Irish descent and was amused by the information
> 
> There's a blurb from a Graham Norton interview with Benedict Cumberbatch if anyone is interested in looking for it.


	73. You Should Have Said Something Earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock clears the air with Big Brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "No legacy is as great as honesty." - William Shakespeare

    By the time Sherlock reached the flat, his nipples felt like rosy pink slivers of ice against his chest. He was freezing. The detective's teeth chattered like a pair of castanets, prompting an ache in his jaw. Creeping through the silent interior, Sherlock remained dispirited. He required the succor only John could bestow, but John was not there. 

    John, at the surgery for a bit of locum work, was tending to runny noses with his typical, dedicated professionalism whilst _he,_ _consulting idiot,_ wandered London being stupid. Shame suffused the detective's pallid cheeks with a bloody stain of color. He looked as though he'd been slapped. 

    How utterly appalling to be sidetracked by _sex_ \- on a case, at the crime scene, water running in rivulets down his nose like a moronwhilst he ogled a corpse. Sherlock _s_ _corned_  those puerile individuals, people so adamant in trying to get a leg over they ignored all else. How infantile, how trite, how useless...and now, how _him._  Gagging for it like a fourteen-year-old diddling with his first erection.

_Thank heavens Donovan was otherwise occupied or I would never hear the end of it._

   Well, needs must. If John wasn't there to throw him into a hot shower and set the kettle to boil, he would have to provide for himself. How dull. Christ, Sherlock delighted in John's doting, motherly ministrations.They set him to grinning every time; John bustling about the flat, scowling in resignation as he set about ameliorating his flatmate's woes. In Sherlock's world, tender loving care included a steaming shower, hot tea, fresh clothing, takeaway, and the occasional suturing of flesh wounds. 

     An hour later, Sherlock reclined leisurely on the couch, perusing his choice of crap telly. The detective's hair drew into tight, precise curls as it dried, perfectly delineated by the contrast of his eggshell porcelain skin. Sherlock's cheeks had pinked up from the heat of the fire, cheekbones enhanced by the flickering light. He was unequivocally gorgeous at this moment, yet so naively unaware. John would have been so amused.

    The case file, unbeknownst to Lestrade, lay steaming in a 52-degrees Celsius oven. The detective eyed the clock, slurping the now lukewarm tea and wincing when he hit the bitter tannins swirling in the bottom of the cup.

    John's shift ended in three hours. Sherlock planned a dinner of takeaway from the excellent Mr. Patel down the street. His superior phaal and laal maas raised the bar for proper tongue-scalding curries. For her part, Watson relished the mild chicken korma; inhaling the meat before smearing sauce in her locks like a poncy shampoo.

   Flicking his eyes to open oven door, Sherlock gave a gusty sigh. If his calculations were correct the file would be dry by then. Baking official police paperwork might by misconstrued by a military man. John would disapprove. A smell like mouldy parchment pervaded the flat, but John wouldn't blink an eye over that; odd odors were par for the course at 221B.

     More to the point, however...there  was no need to explain the reason behind his barmy strategy. The pink of his cheeks darkened to red. He'd been all but kicked off the scene.

    This had never, ever happened to him before...ehhh...hang on, actually he had, when he was high as a kite. That had happened _one time._ Lestrade had completely within his rights to send him packing. But  _today_ _?_  In his mind he heard Lestrade's irritated voice berating him..."For God's sake, find a public loo and toss one off, already! We have a criminal to catch!"   

     Mrs. Hudson, in loco parentis, exuberantly warbled downstairs over the squealing giggles of her charge. Bath time, most likely, Watson up past her rounded belly in soapsuds and splashing water on Hudder's good shoes.    

     Sherlock was just debating on the merits of a nap when his phone buzzed on his lap.  _Mycroft._   _What does he want?_ Demonstrating a frightening level of restraint, his brother had kept mum as of late. He exhaled noisily - the sigh of the persecuted. Yet...despite his overt and rather overblown annoyance with Mycroft's pandering, Sherlock had much to be grateful for. Mycroft never said no when he elicited Big Brother's help. Ever.

    It was true that requests for his brother's assistance generally provoked an agonizing infuriating, mind-numbing, and snarky diatribe on Mycroft's part - obviously before any said favor was to be parceled out. In light of the last year's events, however, Sherlock acknowledged that his brother's supercilious attitude was a fair and equitable trade for his immediate and effective action.

     _Oh...Mycroft. Must you really? As if this day's events haven't been trying enough. Wait - bloody hell! Did he see me on camera? He probably things I'm on drugs again. Shit. Oh...the humanity._

"Hello, Mycroft. And to what do I owe the pleasure of your phone call this evening?" Sherlock intoned, feigning nonchalance but failing miserably.

     "Hello, Dear Brother. I'm calling for several reasons, the subjects of which can only be discussed in person." Mycroft's usually smooth, oily voice was tempered with...what? The timbre of it sounded somewhat different. Something new reflected in his voice, something strange; something very "Not Mycroft."

     Sherlock pulled his feet off the couch and bolted upright. "What?" He dithered, annoyed and alarmed in equal measure. "Exactly what _subjects_  are you referring to? Do you have another tedious job for me, Mycroft?" 

     "Ah. No no, this is more of a _personal_ nature. Family business, as it were," sighed Mycroft.

     "Family? Our family? Is something wrong with Mummy? Just what are you getting at, Mycroft?" Sherlock's lanky limbs flailed about in distress. He knocked a shin on the coffee table with such force Mycroft caught the audible cracking of his bone meeting oak. "Bloody fuck!" he howled. John would have hardily approved. 

     Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. "Mummy's _fine,_ Brother Mine. For goodness' sake, settle down before you break something. Exactly what is going on in that flat - carpentry, or are you simply redecorating?" He cleared his throat. "No, no. I'm referring one specific matter which is absolutely not health-related, as well as a tidbit of information pertinent to your own personal family."

     Sherlock stopped pacing and stood ramrod straight. "Mummy _is_ my family, Mycroft. What are you talking about? Who are you talking about?" He grunted vehemently. "Is this about you? Which part of my family is more personal than any other, and when exactly are you planning on gracing me with your presence?"

     " _Sherlock._ Goodness me, take a breath. You'll be happy to know that I am waiting in a car outside your door. Let me in and I'll answer all of your questions." The balding man bit his lip in an unusual display of anxiety. The fly in the ointment, indeed. "Our business won't take very long, I assure you. At any rate, I have an engagement to attend this evening." 

 _"Fine._ But I will have you know John's daughter will be coming back to the flat within the hour." He snorted. "I fear I've become very sentimental in her presence. You may consider it distasteful."

    Mycroft huffed in amused derision. "No worries, I shall contain myself."

    Sherlock heard his brother's prim footsteps on the stairwell. He let out his third soulful sigh of the afternoon. And the day had started out so promising, too.

    Mycroft did not knock. He came in, closing the door gently and turned, facing his little brother with... trepidation?  Sherlock cocked his head in confusion. Was his brother expressing...an emotion? This day was becoming increasingly bizarre, and Sherlock's disquiet exploded into full-blown anxiety.

     Perhaps Watson would burst in the flat speaking French, or start tap dancing. Perhaps she'd speak French whilst simultaneously tap dancing and juggling knives with Mrs. Hudson. Perhaps he was asleep on the couch and simply having a nightmare.

     "Hello, Mycroft. Well, come in, don't just lurk by the door." Sherlock uttered after a prolonged and uncomfortable silence. "Come sit down...or are you planning on conversing from over there?"

     "Thank you, Brother Mine," Mycroft's feet unfroze, enabling his feet to move. "Yes, I suppose we should commence with our little discussion sooner than later, considering." Mycroft walked over the red Oriental carpet and gingerly sat down on Sherlock's green chair. He balanced a rather bulky briefcase on his knees, and simply gazed at Sherlock.

     Sherlock's mouth pinched tight in increasing anxiety. Holmes sat watching Holmes sat watching Holmes. Eventually, the detective flipped a hand out to gesture at the briefcase. His stomach roiled squeamishly, and Sherlock wished Mycroft would stop being so... _timid_. "Spit it out, Mycroft, whatever it is. I'll deal with it...and why the blazes are you acting so hellishly odd?"

    The elder brother cleared his throat. "I am sorry to say that the information I'm to share with you is extremely unpleasant and of a rather sensitive nature." Mycroft's face performed a series of acrobatic maneuvers, as if he was wrestling with a myriad of emotions. 

    "See? Right there!" Sherlock extended his index finger straight at his brother's face and waved it self-righteously. "Right there, that what's happening on your face. It's obviously sentiment!" Sherlock snorted. "Mycroft! What is that about? You're freaking me out!" 

    The elder Holmes sat frozen, as if Sherlock was flourishing a pistol instead of a finger. He paused, scanning the room as he took an exploratory sniff. "I say, is something burning?"

    "Bloody hell!" Sherlock sprang from the couch and hurried into the kitchen. Shutting the doors behind him, he peered at the file sullenly smoldering in the oven. "Buggering shite..." the detective muttered, "Lestrade's going to have a cow." He removed the paperwork and ignored the browned edges. He hoped John believed that he'd received it in this condition.

    "Sherlock?" Mycroft intoned.

    "Coming, coming," Sherlock said as he swept back onto the couch. "An experiment of little importance, never mind. So..." he flipped an imperious hand, "continue."

    "Ahem. Well," Mycroft murmured, unlatching the briefcase and taking out a rather substantial file. "I have some new information about John's late wife." He cleared his throat, offering the file to his brother with both hands. "I wasn't quite sure if it was something that the doctor really needed to know."

    Sherlock rose and accepted it warily. He wedged his long legs into the green armchair and quickly scanned through the first few pages. "This file is about Mary," he said flatly.

    "Yes. Indeed. Several of my colleagues considered it worthwhile to continue delving into her past. We want to establish what, if any, possible connections she may have had with both Moriarty and Magnussen. This file contains the information that they were seeking." Mycroft paused, giving Sherlock the time to give the file a better look-see. Five minutes later, Mycroft glanced at his phone. He wondered if he should postpone tonight's dinner with Alicia. 

    Sherlock finally lifted his head, staring at his brother through his unruly fringe. "So."

    Mycroft re-crossed his legs. "Yes. She was planted. Perhaps Moriarty knew of the connection between Norbury and Kukk, and perhaps, he did not. The evidence has not been conclusive either way." Mycroft's shoulders gave a minute shrug.

   "More than likely, Moriarty was entertaining himself by placing her here, simply another one of his games. He _so_  loved mucking up the waters and sitting back to enjoy the show. What were the chances that Norbury's and Kukk's paths would _not_ intersect at some point in the future?" He sniffed in derision. "It was not an oversight."

    Mycroft straighted his tie and cuffs, taking a moment to allow Sherlock to process. "It must have been quite the lark for dear Jim. Whether or not he suspected Magnussen's plans for blackmailing her at some later date is, frankly, a moot point." 

    Mycroft closed the briefcase with a snap and laid it besides his feet. "Moriarty sent Kukk here to spy on you. Your "ex", and I use the term loosely,  _Janine_ _,_ was placed at the same time."

    "Ah, yes. Janine. She is very good, I will admit. She and Mary were quite the pair, I imagine." Sherlock mused, rubbing his chin pensively.

     Mycroft nodded, conceding the point. "When you faked your death, the remaining Moriarty network deemed it best that Kukk befriend John. Just in case," he smiled grimly, "you came back. She continued to collect information for some time...look on page 24 and see for yourself."

    Mycroft continued his narrative whilst Sherlock parsed the paperwork. "However, some facts have blurred into speculation. We believe she went rogue about six months before you came back to London, about the time she and John started dating."

    The Holmes brothers shared a very long, very intense look. Neither moved, and nothing was said. "It is quite possible that Magnussen held an alliance with Moran. By no longer performing her duties, Moran might have handed her off to Magnussen as a...plaything." Mycroft grimaced, mouth moving as if to rid it of a bitter taste. "Once Moran had been neutralized, it would have been easy to set things in place."

    "Was she planted as an assassin in case I returned?" Sherlock murmured, not really wanting to believe.

    "What do you think, Brother Mine?" Mycroft's eyes lowered down to his hands folded tight in his lap. "But she did not make a move to kill you, now did she. Not until you interfered with Magnussen."

    The tall man unclenched them with effort. "Sherlock, I truly believe that she changed after meeting John. I believe _he_ changed her. Moriarty and Moran were dead, and the rest of the network dismantled. She was free to do as she wished at this point. I do not think things would have come to a head as they did, without Magnussen's machinations. I think she had planned to let you live." 

     Sherlock squirmed uneasy. So much had been left up to fate, events unfolding as people's doings led them. How much of this had been from _his_ doing?

    "Sherlock. We all know that past deeds cannot be outrun forever. It was only a matter of time before Mary's past caught up with her. Norbury proved that. Whether John's wife had lasted for another five years is anyone's guess. It just is what it is, Brother, and John should have realized that sooner."

    Sherlock slowly sorted through the paper, gently placing it back into the file. He shut the cover, and handed it back to Mycroft. "I do not think that there is anything here that could help either John or I in any manner. But, Mycroft...I appreciate the effort you've put into this. I appreciate..." the detective cleared his throat gruffly, looking away, "all of your assistance with John. With his house, with his job, with...uhm...with me."

   "You...eh hem...have been a good brother, Mycroft, despite all that I have said and done. At some point, I think I needed to have you know that." Sherlock flashed a wry smile. "Today is as good as any day to say it. I wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for you, and I am sure John would be...well.  _Thank you."_

     Mycroft held the file with a herculean grip, flabbergasted at his brother's last words. "You are most welcome, Sherlock." His voice deepened, trembling. "All you've ever have to do is ask." He bent down to retrieve the briefcase when the front door opened and slammed shut. The brothers recoiled in unison, realizing that John had come home from work. 

     Mycroft thrust the paperwork into the briefcase and gave it a decisive slap shut, locking the latches for good measure. They could both hear John's happy conversation with his landlady-cum-nanny-but-not-your-housekeeper. His daughter's rambunctious voice carried much more efficiently, helping the men track John's position in the building.

    John was coming up the stairs, noisy daughter in tow. Sherlock nodded sharply at his brother, and the briefcase was pushed back into the shadows of the chair. Nothing more was needed to be said. 

 

   

 


	74. The Spector of Unfinished Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John comes in to the flat and sees the brothers...having a conversation. Socializing? Taking an interest in another human being? Most bizarre. 
> 
> John struggles to hold on to his fragile psyche, ashamed of Mycroft's necessary intervention.
> 
> Rosie raises some interesting questions by freaking everyone out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “This looks like one of those unwelcome social summonses which call upon a man either to be bored or to lie.”  
> ― Arthur Conan Doyle, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes
> 
> “What's in a name, anyway? That which we call a nose by any other name would still smell.”  
> ― Reduced Shakespeare Company, The Compleat Works of Wllm Shkspr

   John smiled at his lover before acknowledging the elder Holmes. It was a private hello as well as a chance to bolster his courage. Mycroft had come to the flat.

    The doctor offered Mycroft a smile, albeit a tentative one. Mycroft, a man in control of the Commonweath stood as witness to the loss of his own. John was ashamed of his weakness; his drinking, his loss of any self-control, and subsequent psychotic break. But most of all, the widower was ashamed of basically abandoning his daughter. The fact of it, the _truth_  of it, twisted painfully deep in John's guts.

   He'd ruthlessly impinged upon Sherlock's altruism. He'd beaten Sherlock to a pulp, left him in the hands of a serial killer, and seriously disrupted his life. Sherlock might had been good for John Watson; the opposite was certainly not true. 

    Sherlock frowned, picking up John's discomfiture. The little man's continuing self-condemnation was agonizing to watch. The detective dithered, at a loss. He wanted to seize John's pain and destroy it, but didn't know how.

    "Mycroft?" John nodded courteously, dropping Rosie's nappie bag to the carpet. "Up for a visit, or is this business related?" He paused, looking down as he set Rosie down on her feet.

     John visibly flinched as he rose back up. Mycroft was mounting  to his own feet and fastidiously straightening his suit jacket. Stepping forward, he reached out to shake John's hand.

    John shook it cautiously, bewilderment sketched on his face. Mycroft smiled at the doctor inscrutably. "Uh..." the doctor stammered, casting a wary glance in Sherlock's direction. "Official business, then? Case of national importance? I can take Rosie to the park if you need privacy."     

    Rosie circumnavigated the men's legs to make a beeline for her Locky. She climbed enthusiastically into his lap and slapped her chubby fingers on his chest. "Papilock! I clean!" 

    Distracted, a beautific smile radiated across Sherlock's lips. He nuzzled his nose into her damp hair and rooted around, snorting loudly. "So I smell! Took a tubby at Auntie Emma's, did we?" The gentle roughhousing advanced to a tickle fight, ending with the little one snuggling on his lap. Sherlock's hands looked enormous as the crossed her little body. Nevertheless, they fit.

    Mycroft goggled briefly before a hint of a smile tilted up one side of his mouth. He dropped"Papilock? Is that what you are going by nowadays?"

    Sherlock flushed under his brother's scrutiny, but bend down to plant a kiss on the girl's head all the same. "I did warn you, Brother. Sentiment. It's not for the faint of heart. As far as the moniker goes...I blame it on the vagaries of language development."

    "Ah. Very good." Mycroft nodded sagely. "John. Come join us. I have some information that I wish to share."

    "Regarding..." John tilted an eyebrow, "what? A case of national importance?"

     "I suppose it might be considered so, at least with the first issue. Come. Sit." Mycroft navigated back to his chair, a subtle nod off his head indicating John should join Sherlock on the couch. "But both issues are personal to our family."

    John halted, halfway to the couch. He flashed a quizzical glance at his lover before turning around to regard Mycroft deliberately. "Your family? And you felt that...I should be present to hear this information?"

   " _Our_ family, John. You are part of our family, as far as Sherlock is concerned, at least." Mycroft's face expressed... something. "And I, too...eh...have acknowledged your inclusion into our clan. Our parents have practically adopted you, and view Rosamund as a grandchild via Sherlock."

    John shook with some unnamed emotion. "Are you having me on, Mycroft?" he stammered, voice low in his throat. Surely Mycroft's pronouncement was a prevarication, a manipulation of his fragile state - but for what reason?

    What motive could Mycroft possibly have to toy with his emotions like this? He was a widower, and his parents were long gone. He was a pariah to Harry. Rosie was the only family he had left.

    John's mind went blank. He strode stiff-legged to the couch and placed himself by the armrest, as far from Sherlock as possible. Rosie lunged from Sherlock's arms and the doctor reached out to automatically place her in his lap.

    "Mycroft? John?" Sherlock spluttered. He swept sideways to sit thigh-to-thigh with John, wrapping a propriety arm about his shoulder. The detective shot a disconcerted frown in his brother's direction, but focused his attention on John. Rosie fussed, sensing her father's upset. She whacked his chest, and John absentmindedly reached for her hand and kissed it. John kept his attention on Mycroft.

    "Mycroft, I have the sneaking suspicion that you are playing me. For what purpose, I have no clue." Pulling away from Sherlock's torso to peer at his lover, John spluttered "Sherlock? What's going on... really going on?"

    "As usual, I have idea as to what Mycroft is on about. However, you  _are_ my family, John. You've always been so, and..." Resting his plate-sized palm on Rosie's head, Sherlock indicated through touch to what he couldn't yet voice.

    John's hands trembled. For the first time in a long time, his body ached for a drink. "Look, I...ehhhm," he cleared his throat noisily, "yeah, alrighty. Ah...so, spill it. What did you come to share?"

    Mycroft's pronouncement had rattled himself, as well. He had acknowledged John as Sherlock's significant other long ago, long before Moriarty reared his evil head. Verbalizing his *gasp*  _sentiments_ out loud to the humans in question, though, that was an entirely a different kettle of (gold)fish. Nevertheless, Mycroft believed that it needed to be said, particularly in light of his next bit of information.

    "Yes. Indeed. Shall I continue?" Mycroft didn't wait for an answer. "I have good news, and very good news...I think. Which would you prefer to hear first?"

    John and Sherlock gazed at each other in silence. As one, they turned to Mycroft and spoke in unison. "Good news," voted Sherlock. "Very good news," requested John.

     Mycroft snorted. "Alright, so shall I act on my own preference?" A warm smile spread across his face, eyes glowing. He seemed genuinely happy. The men on the couch gaped in awe.

     "Yes, please," the younger Holmes gestured, hand flapping repeatedly in an indication of "Stop dithering and cough it up, already."

      "In what seems like a lifetime ago, Sherlock and I had a conversation. It spoke to my views on people's choices to be together. Cohabitation. Friendships. Intimacy and sexual relations."

     "Mycroft! We most certainly did not have a conversation about sex! We were talking about goldfish!" Sherlock shouted in mortification.

     John smiled, highly amused. "I'd like to have been a fly on the wall during _that_ discussion. No CCTV footage available, by any chance?" He turned to Sherlock. "Goldfish?" Sherlock grumbled and looked in the other direction.

     Mycroft sniffed, very unamused. "Tragically, no. But I remember it well, just the same. My brother expressed curiosity in the fact that I have purposely chosen to live in solitude. I sought no friendship, nor intimacy. I need not elaborate on my reasons, do I?"

    "No!" the men uttered as one. 

    Mycroft sniggered. He giggled. And John and Sherlock's reaction to his levity propelled his giggle to a full-fledged guffaw. He lifted his arms up and proclaimed, "I am getting married!"

    "What?" John and Sherlock cried...at the same time.

    "My word, do you to practice... this?" Mycroft drawled in amusement, waving a hand from one to the other. "Quite impressive, indeed."

     Sherlock bolted off the couch to stand. John inspected his lover and realized that the lanky man was teetering like the Tower of Pisa. The doctor yanked him back down to the couch. Rosie climbed over to  the blindsided detective and smacked both his cheeks with  her palms. "Papi! Papilock, mik!" Sherlock gaped down at her, eyes glazed in shock.

    A smile lightened John's face, his eyes glowing bright blue in the lamp light. "That's... terrific, Mycroft! This is real, right, you aren't playing some game on your brother, are you?" 

    "Shockingly, no. My associate, Lady Alicia Smallwood, whom you, Sherlock, might recognize as the former Lady Elizabeth Smallwood, has become my betrothed. She...has been very persuasive in altering my opinion on the matter. And now," he grinned cheekily, "she has accepted my proposal; after a short period of engagement, naturally. We plan to have a simple service, with immediate family only."

     Mycroft smiled meaningfully at John. "Due to our wishes for a private family celebration, I deemed it necessary to acknowledge your role in our extended family" 

    "I see, yes indeed. Uhm, thank you, Mycroft. In fact, I have many, many things to thank you for. You have certainly stepped in to...assist me with my...troubles over the last year. That now makes much more sense." John watched as Sherlock scooped up his daughter in his arms and tottered into the kitchen.

    "Okay in there, 'Lock?" John giggled. "Mycroft, I think you've thrown Sherlock for a wobbly. Hah! There's a first time for everything, yeah?"

     A rapid series of question burst from John's mouth - where, when, how, why? He was completely chuffed. Mycroft was as quick to answer, and by the time Sherlock strode back into the sitting room with his charge in tow, John had the gist of the situation.

     Plopping down on her bottom (and forcing a cloud of dust to rise up around her from the carpet), Rosie slurped on her sippy cup, a slobbery stream of milk trickling down her chin. A bulging packet of chocolate digestives was squished in her other hand, crackling ominously.

    At any other time, John would have berated Sherlock for indulging his daughter with sweeties so late in the day. However, today was a day for celebration...so, chocolate for dinner, so be it.

   "So. Mycroft." Sherlock nudged John's knee for a space on the couch, and fell back. "On to more tenable subjects. You had two bits of information, correct? 

    Mycroft's smile shifted into something more brittle. "So I said. I might have misled you a tad about it being  _good_ news. Perhaps I should have left it at _intel._ "

    Sherlock grunted. "Intel on our family? This isn't... _Mycroft_ , you've not -" he warned. "Mycroft?"

    Mycroft shook his head emphatically. "No. No, this is - "

    "Wait. What? What aren't you saying?" John broke in, eyeing Sherlock suspiciously.

    Silence filled the room. Even Rosie stopped mangling her packet of biscuits to glance up at her father questioningly. " _Mycroft? Sherlock?_   What is this? What are you hiding from me?" John said, voice suddenly full of piss and vinegar. "I might not observe as much as you do, but I can  _see_  when I'm being excluded, thank you very much."

    "John. I assure you that this - " 

    "Stuff it, Mycroft. I gather that you do have something to tell me that you are happily willing to share. However..." John thundered, "There's something else." He squinted at the base of Mycroft's chair. "What's that?" he said, pointing a finger. "You're keeping something from me, I know it." 

    A three-way conversation commenced, conducted solely with frowns, gritted teeth, piercing stares, lifted eyebrows, tilted heads and one incredibly miffed doctor. Eventually, John had enough. "Sherlock!" he bellowed, eliciting a squeak from from his lover's throat. "Enough with the cloak-and-dagger shit. You promised.  _No more secrets."_

"That is what we agreed upon, I concede." Sherlock said with contrition. "But John, before we delve with that," Sherlock flicked his eyes down at the briefcase, "I would like a quick synopsis of your intel, if you please, Mycroft. I think that...we may become distracted before we are able to discuss it, otherwise."

After a prolonged sigh, Mycroft nodded at John. Indelicately grunting as he learned over, Mycroft fished a hand around for the unwieldy leather case. Inadvertently exposing his balding pate, Mycroft grasped the handle and lifted it with no little effort.

    Rising, he and placed it with a thud on the coffee table. Punching in the code, Mycroft released the catch and swiveled the case around to face the doctor. "So, you insist," he directed at John. "Shall we discuss the Intel as Sherlock has requested before that?"

    John pondered the question, twisting his lips into a knot. "Ok, I'll play. But no funny business, Mycroft. I swear, if I find out later that you've held something back I won't be held accountable for my actions."

    Mycroft chewed over John's words before responding. "Its not easy information to digest, John, and therefore is the reason we considered it best to remain confidential."

   " _We?"_ John fumed, nostrils flaring. "I been an unwitting victim of your collusion many times before, Mycroft." He spun sideways to glare at Sherlock, who had the good sense to act abashed. "Having a say in my own life, and being given  _all_ the information that pertains to my life, is a very important thing to me. If you truly view me as a member of your family, reflect on the fact that your own brother Sherlock does not handle secrecy well. And neither...have I."

    John blew out a breath, and pulled the briefcase close to his knees. His cheeks flamed bright red. His eyes morphed into a deeper, deadly dark blue. They shot daggers at the detective. "Sherlock? Were you really going to do this to me again?"

    Sherlock choked, feeling somewhat nauseous. "John, I -"

    "You what! Tell me. Mycroft regards me as family. I thought you regarded me as your partner, in every sense of the word. Yet neither of you trust me enough to share..." his stocky fingers wiggled in air quotes, 'information not easy to digest'. Well, fuck that, and fuck your bloody goldfish, whatever that means. I think I've dealt with my share of difficult information. What's a little bit more shit added to the pile?"

   Sherlock raised his hands, pleading for John to calm down. "John, I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to imply that you are incapable of handling this. I just... you're just getting back on your feet."

    His eyes shone with unshed tears. Not until front of Mycroft.  _Never_ in front of Mycroft. "I was worried. It is going to hurt you, John...and I am tired of watching you hurt and being helpless to fix it! Do you see?"

    The doctor shook visibly, but from what strong emotion Sherlock could not discern. Looking down at his daughter, who traded looks between himself and Sherlock as if they were playing tennis. John saw that she was frightened, and repented. 

   He reached out to her, and she clumsily crawled over and into his lap, still clutching onto the sippy cup. "Ok. Ok. Right." John sighed, exhausted from this unexpected turn of events. "Ok. No more blame games for now. So, go ahead, Mycroft, and give us your Intel. Then, we talk about  _this._ And Sherlock? Open up that sodding packet of digestives before Rosie crushes them into crumbs."

_**************_

 "So." Mycroft began. "John, you're aware that Sherlock and I have a younger sibling."

 John coughed out the bit of biscuit that Rosie had shoved into his mouth. "Oi. Very aware. And she's locked up and secure, I take it?"

 "Yes, absolutely secure. She is no longer at Sherrinford, but at a new location. The entire team of staff have been replaced, and the new staff trained and prepared as much as humanly possible for any attempts to manipulate them by our sister. The oversight on my part in believing her to be contained was unforgivable. I am so sorry, John, that she toyed with you in that fashion. Apparently she had been moving in and out of Sherrinford for years, spying on our parents and Sherlock as she saw fit."

    "And, do you have a contingency plan in case all of these brilliant new accommodations fail as spectacularly as the old ones did?" John asked flatly.

    "We do, in fact. They're something we can discuss at a later date, if you like. I find it interesting that Euros never harmed any of us, or you for that matter, whilst watching nearby. I do not pretend to understand her motives, but I find it curiously heartening. However, I take nothing for granted." Mycroft rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

    "Brother Mine? Do you have any questions about your safety, or that of John and his child?" 

     "I have many, many questions, Mycroft, and you can better believe that I expect you to  _answer each one._ However," Sherlock swallowed, tasting bitterness in his mouth, "now is not the best time."

    "Agreed. Well, John. You've asked me to share this third issue with you. I hope that you don't come to regret it." Mycroft opined. "It is about your wife."

    John squeezed Rosie with a wave of panic. "Mary. You've learned something new about Mary." Rosie whined in protest. Belly full of chocolate and bloodstream full of sugar, she slid out of her father's grasp and made a beeline for her toy box.

    "Mary had told you that she believed that the rest of A.G.R.A. was dead. In doing so, by a lie of omission, she led you to believe that she no longer worked as an assassin or in any capacity as an intelligence agent. Is this correct?"

    John's stomach dropped to the floor. "Yeah. That's..." he grabbed Sherlock's knee. "That's what I knew to be true. She felt she'd been given second chance to live a normal life. She studied nursing, and started work here at the surgery six, well, now seven years ago."

    When she met me, well. You know what I like. She - there was something about her that kept my attention. She...oh, God. Sherlock, she made me feel the same way I did when I was running around London with you." John slapped his hands over his eyes, ashamed of himself. "What, Mycroft, what? What else did she lie to me about?"

    "Goddamn it." Sherlock growled, wrapping an arm around John. "John. Hell, I wish you weren't so bloody pig-headed. This is going to hurt, John."

    "Then fucking just say it. I asked for it, so you can bloody well give it to me." John snarled through gritted teeth. "SPIT IT OUT!"

    Taking a deep breathe, Mycroft indicated that that John should lift out the top file. "Turn to page two. After extensive undercover work, my men were able to trace a line between Moriarty and his team of operatives."

    "No." John groaned miserably.

     Steeling himself, Mycroft peered over at his little brother before facing John again. "Yes, John. Mary worked for Moriarty. She was paired up with Janine..."

     John listened numbly whilst Mycroft gave a detailed account of Mary's past few years. The widower gave up any pretense at stoicism, tears rolling off his cheeks to patter on the pages that trembled in his hands. He needed to vomit. He needed a drink. He needed to run, screaming and tearing at his clothes and his hair and his body and soul until he'd been torn into pieces and was utterly destroyed.

    He was So. Fucking. Tired of this shit. So stupid; he was so fucking stupid and naive. Sherlock was right. He never saw anything of significance.

    "I can't...I can't..no more. Shut up, Mycroft. Shut the hell up." John bolted from under Sherlock's arms and made a break for the door. Both Mycroft and Sherlock jumped to their feet in alarm.

    "Sherlock...Mycroft, you gave me what I wanted. I asked for this, so. Fuck it." He ran his hands through his hair until it spiked up at crazy angles. "Fuck. Fuck. Look, I just need some air. I'm not going to do anything crazy, or dangerous, or stupid. I just have to get this all through my thick skull, yeah?"

   Sherlock stepped over the coffee table to sidle closer to John. "No, Sherlock." John cried, voice harsh and cracking. "You've got to trust me on this. I'm going out. You're not going to follow me. Mycroft, fuck your CCTV and all of your minions. You can bloody well leave off for a few hours without watching me wipe my arse.  _Got it, family of mine?"_

    Sherlock nodded, dumbfounded. "Alright, John, I will stay here with Watson. Please, though, take your phone. And  _call me_ if things get - bad."

    John shoved his phone in his pocket and swept out the door with a cry. The brothers stood quietly, almost in repose. Eventually, Sherlock walked over to gather the paperwork that had scattered to the floor. Afraid, Rosie whimpered and toddled over to Sherlock with a down-turned lower lip. 

    The detective bent over her to touch her hair as she buried her face into his trousers. "Oh, Watson. Watson, what did we do?" He whispered. Her fingers fisted into his things, and as a result several pieces of paper ripped off into her hands. She leaned away from his legs to examine what she'd snagged.

     Sherlock's heart leapt to his throat. A picture-perfect image of Mary Morston was inked on the page. Watson's pudgy fingers framed her mother's face in a "v" shape. Rosie goggled at the printout. She tapped on Mary's face with her other hand and cried "Cook! Cook! See, Papi? Dat's Cook!"

 


	75. Dream Interpretation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock seeks answers to some very disturbing questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep." - William Shakespeare
> 
> Sorry if it shows up weird, I am using my phone

    "Upee, Papi. Upee, upee,  _UH-peeee..."_ Rosie demanded as she slapped his thighs with the torn paper.

     Unconsciously, the detective snagged the chubby toddler under the armpits and hoisted her onto his hip. He leaned back to peer into her eyes. "Say that again, Rosamund Watson."

    "Cook. See cook?" Rosie squealed, a strange light shining in her powder blue eyes. She flapped the ripped paper into his face. Turning his head aside, Sherlock shot an inscrutable look at his brother. Mycroft purposefully avoided his gaze, opting instead  to settle those cool, blue eyes on John's daughter. His lips twisted into something resembling a bewildered frown.

     Without a word, Sherlock strode woodenly into the kitchen. Watson was not a _thing_ to be examined or deduced, least of all by his brother. She was John's daughter and Mycroft had no business scrutinizing her with those beady little eyes of his. Sherlock knew that particular look, and it never bode well for the recipient.

     The detective sat John's daughter into her high chair with practiced ease whilst she chattered on about "Cook". Sherlock turned, silently rummaging in the fridge for some cheese. He was careful to circumnavigate the more unsavory items he suspected John might protest. He shoved them back behind the condiments. Rosie goggled, interested. Would her Papi take out something to eat, or something that would her Daddy's face change color if he saw it?

      Finding a block of cheddar, Sherlock sliced and then arranged it onto some crackers. Silently setting the plate on her tray, he backed up two steps. The detective scrutinized Rosie as if she was a slide under his microscope, oblivious to the hypocritical nature of his actions. Distracted, Rosie situated Mary's picture delicately next to her plate and tucked in. 

     Sherlock folded his arms and jammed both hands under each armpit, head cast down towards the floor. Those icy, multifaceted eyes glazed over as the detective drew deep into his storehouse of memories. His eyelids closed and remained shut. Rosie paid no mind, being witness to the vagaries of Papi's odd behaviors since before she could walk. Besides...she had cheese.

     Sherlock hastened in and out of a complicated maze of corridors. An infinity of thresholds lined both sides of the passage. A sparse number of entryways granted free access via archway or portico. However, the lion's share were breached by doors.They criss-crossed the walls in a myriad of shapes, colors and sizes - as if Dr. Suess had been the architect.

     Some doors hung ajar, suspended on massive brass hinges. Some portals were manifestly impassable; heavy steel partitions secured with locks, chains, and the occasional inked skull and crossbones.

   Sherlock angled left to manuever under five incrementally waning archways. The detective duck-walked under the last one and halted. He'd reached a dead end. Groaning, he collapsed on his knees to ease the cramps in his thighs and calves.

   Claustrophobia rose up in his chest. Sherlock forcibly willed it away to focus on a diminutive kelly green door. A wooden plaque hung cockeyed, hooked with rusty wire over a wicked-looking spike impaling the door. The plaque was engraved with Baskerville bold serif font with the epithet  ** _Lucid Dreams._** Sherlock willed the door to unlock.

     He twisted the knob, opened the door, and crawled through with his elbows tucked in. The detective closed the door quietly behind him. Stretching up his full height with a sigh of relief, the lanky man peered into the shadowy interior. It was a space of enormous proportions. 

    _Alice in Wonderland, without the white rabbit...or the skirt and hairband, for that matter. Although, Mycroft is an excellent stand-in for the Cheshire cat. Well...enough._

    Now that Sherlock had accomplished the mission, he paused in his mental meanderings to reenter the reality of the kitchen. Smiling sweetly at John's daughter, Sherlock portioned out chunks of an apple and some grapes (sliced into quarters, obviously - grapes are a significant choking hazard for toddlers).

     Papilock blew kisses at Watson and booped her nose with his index finger. _Watson safe and secure...check._  Duty done, the detective dragged a chair from the table and sat down facing his charge.

   Meanwhile, an insignificant portion of his brain set about accounting for Mycroft's whereabouts. His elder brother shuffled about in the sitting room, presumably gathering loose papers from the file to secure them back in the briefcase. A sharp snap of the latches informed the detective that his deduction was correct. Very good. 

    Without warning, a sharp lightening bolt of panic shot up Sherlock's spine. John was out there alone on the dark streets of London. He was confused, hurt, and wrestling with emotional overload. Sherlock felt sick at the thought.

     _Nevertheless._

    Steeling himself, Sherlock put this knowledge aside. John needed to walk. It was the doctor's way of managing his personal demons. If Sherlock sought John out now, he would more than likely lash out in anger and refuse to come back. Sherlock tamped down his fear, and turned once more to the room in his mind.

     It was a gallery of sorts. Images spread across a multitude of walls, winding corridors, voluminous alcoves, ceiling and floor. Each picture represented a specific lucid dream. The dreams were categorized as follows:

 Horrendously vivid nightmares depicted with horrendously vivid clarity

 Fractured doodles from his years of addiction à la Picasso

 Dreams of deduction, precise as digital imaging

 Dreams of his childhood (to be honest, these were the most beastly of the nightmares - stashed in the deepest recesses of the sub-basement) 

 Dreams of his sister and Mycroft; often in sequence, sometimes in tandem

 Dreams of his very small circle of friends

          A _nd then._

_I don't want to go here. Do I have to go here?_

_If needs must._

_This concerns John. It must be done. Stop being an idiot, and just do it._

             *SIGH*

         Dream of James Moriarty

         Dreams of Mary Watson

  Dreams of John Watson, the scariest of all

       


	76. The Parent of Disillusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John walks the dark streets of London

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> " 'It was a mistake,' you said. But the cruel thing was, it felt like the mistake was mine, for trusting you." - David Levithan
> 
> "Sometimes people don't want to hear the truth because they don't want their illusions destroyed." - Friedrich Nietzsche
> 
> "Love is the child of illusion and the parent of disillusion." - Miguel de Unamuno

    The streets were dark, despite the numerous LED streetlights crowding every corner. John understood that the lightbulbs weren't faulty. He was. So many lies. So much subterfuge, trickery, and betrayal. He wanted to vomit, but his stomach was empty. Thank God for small mercies.

    The widower tripped over a crack in the pavement. He ignored it, stumbling forward. His mind was a thousand miles away, and and his heart was completely lost. The number of friends, family and lovers who had  _not_ lied to him,  _betrayed_ him, _hurt_ him, was hovering at three: James Sholto, Rosamund, and the indomitable Emma Hudson

     But, why be a hypocrite? How many times had  _he_ lied, betrayed, abandoned and discarded those he professed to love the most? Who was he to talk? Who was he to judge?

_I am no better. So, where does that leave me? I don't know, I don't know, I don't know!_

_It's too much for one man to cope with...at least it's too much for a bloke like me._

_Fuck it. I'm done wallowing in self-pity. No more booze. No more hate. No more blame._

_**It is what it is.**_

_I have a child to raise. I have Sherlock. I will never let either one go, ever. Never. Never. Never again. They are precious to me. I will fight til the death to keep them safe. If that means fighting myself, so be it._

_I am a soldier, and I am at war._

_I am a soldier, and I will conquer my fear._

_I will fight. I will fight. I will fight._

John did an abrupt about-face and marched his short legs toward his home.

    


	77. Three Men and a Baby, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock and Mycroft and finally voice their baffling experiences of possible ghostly intervention. Confusion ensues, at least for the adults in the group. Rosie understands exactly what is going on. It's about time she sets these boys straight.
> 
> I rewrote this chapter about twenty times, and am still not happy with it. Just sayin'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “To die, to sleep -  
> To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub,  
> For in this sleep of death what dreams may come...”  
> ― William Shakespeare, Hamlet
> 
> “The real question of life after death isn't whether or not it exists, but even if it does what problem this really solves.”  
> ― Ludwig Wittgenstein
> 
> “Conscience is no more than the dead speaking to us.”  
> ― Jim Carroll

* * *

     Mycroft scrolled moodily through his burgeoning email inbox. He was sick of the lot. It was a hard thing, fealty; the combined weight of 65.69 million lives pressing down on his shoulders.

    It was exhausting, to be honest _,_ to not be crushed by such unfathomable responsibility. He was exhausted. He was constantly _afraid_.

_And, yet. How is it be that maintaining the delicate balance between my brother and John Watson stands as my greatest duty of all? If I have caused irreparable to John it will be my eventual undoing. Will it be? Should it be?_

_Back to work._

      _War._   _Kim Jong-un. Two separate Jihadist attacks in_ _Barcelona - hundreds of civilian casualties and as of now, fourteen dead. One-hundred twenty poison gas cannisters recovered, ready for use. Right._

_Sixteen sub-Saharan countries currently face severe food shortages and non-existent water sanitation. Check._

_And hurrah, on to my personal favorite, the increasing numbers of home-grown American Nazis. Their parents must feel so proud! Personally, I believe that the Sodding Orange Bastard - aka "SOB" (or, more appropriately, "He, who shall not be named") is utterly chuffed. Bloody hell._ _I have my own little crisis to handle, let alone heed to the ravings of that narcissistic prat._

Harrumphing, Mycroft stuffed his phone in his pocket. His tired eyes glazed over in thought, whilst he unconsciously tore at his nails. Blood slowly oozed from under the nail beds. It stained his fingertips a dark maroon...immaterial.

     As any minor British official would attest, an air of poise and diplomacy was de rigueur whilst in delicate negotiations.

     Information was power, and therefore, must be wielded with caution. Animosity in the thick of discussion led to the eventual escalation of hostilities. One must always use tact upon delivering unpleasant news. Mycroft swore by, lived by, and acted on these tenants in mind...and yet. He'd ignored his own rules.

    Why? What prompted this grievous error of judgement? Sentiment, that ignominious bitch. Wrapped up in a euphoric cloud of Alicia's affections, he'd inadvertently caused senseless harm, and for what. Ridiculous, really, the breadth of damage love inflicts. All lives end. All hearts are broken.

      _For fuck's sake, how is that fair?_

    _In my haste to speak to Sherlock, I've hurt John. Stupid! Stupid and foolish. Sherlock is correct. I AM an idiot. I should have presented the folio to him all alone, somewhere private._

_Yes...somewhere secluded, someplace remote, somehow impervious to the pricking of ears and keen prying eyes - and BLOODY. NOSY. FLATMATES!_

_Possibly, Antarctica might have provided a more appropriate venue._

     Mycroft let out a mournful groan, dropping his head. He scrubbed his face with his hands. A long, maroon streak of color slashed a jagged line along his left cheek.  _Dammit._ He knew the makings a danger night when he saw it. Christ knows how many he'd already endured!

 _Curse_ John and his inquisitive nature. Curse _himself_ for trying to mix business with pleasure! They should be sitting around the fire sipping at a celebratory brandy, not agonizing over the potential ruination of John's heart.

    Right now, at this moment, John and Sherlock's faces should wreathed in smiles, joyously mocking Mycroft for sacrificing his ideals for the soft affections of a woman. Bah. How very saccharine he'd grown, how very  _human_ since Sherlock "resurrection".

    How very disturbing.

    Mycroft scowled, plopping his bottom into Sherlock's armchair. The green leather cushion popped noisily in protest. Mycroft fidgeted uneasily, unconsciously tapping the armrests in the rhythm of "God Save the Queen".

    The Watson child had...what. What had she done? Surely the name she had used for the Kukk woman was not an actual _surname_  of "Kukk." The idea was patently absurd, and yet Sherlock's reaction seemed off. _Had_ something odd had just occurred?

    The clatter of slicing apples and quartering grapes (prudent of Sherlock, grapes _are_  an infant choking hazard, after all) made its way into the sitting room. For once in his life, Mycroft was unmoored, unsure, indecisive... impotent. Inadequately equipped, as it were, to stem the tide of John's upset and Sherlock's welling panic. He must find a way to sever his brain from his bollocks if he was to be any help at all.

     John's continuing absence was starting to play havoc with Mycroft's imagination. This was unfortunate, really. The Holmes' brothers' amazing intellect allowed for a comprehensive listing of potential disasters.

    Calculating the amount time since John stormed from the flat left him feeling...not good.  which was too bad, really, considering his expansive intellectual capacity. Helpless. He was as helpless as a kitten. What to do?

   Alicia, intuitive creature that she was, might shed some light on the appropriate handling of this disaster. She was joining his family, after all.

    In addition, Mycroft thought, unconsciously wincing... Alicia needed to understand what she had gotten herself into by accepting his proposal. The Holmes clan had an overabundance of skeletons in their closet, beginning at Musgrave. All families held secrets, had a few bones tucked away in their wardrobes. In this most unusual of cases, not all of the Holmes' skeletons were dead.

   Mycroft hesitated briefly before making a decision. It was time to start making choices as a partner, rather than an individual when it came to his family. What a strange notion, having another person to lean on, to gain strength from and ask opinions of. Yes, he had Sherlock for matters of state, for the unpleasantness of legwork, but  _this_  - a living stanchion against despair, apprehension and heartache...well shit. He'd never had such a luxury before in his life!

    _I've instigated this catastrophe._

_John Watson._

_John._

_Sherlock's salvation, his defender. His love._

_God in heaven, where the hell is that man?!_

 Sherlock's food prep must be complete, if the lack of noise was any indicator. Mycroft attended to the cheery sounds of Rosamund Watson as she masticated her way through the meal. What was Sherlock doing now? In a strop, as per usual?

   With a heavy sigh, Mycroft hoisted up his exhausted body and made his way into the small kitchen. Rosie goggled at him in comic surprise. Perhaps the child had forgotten his presence. Pausing in her meal, she eyeballed him consideringly. Mycroft felt unexpectedly vulnerable, as if sandwiched between glass specimen slides

   Rosamund surveyed the leftover tidbits of food in her tray. Grasping a slimy piece of cheddar, she warily offered it to Mycroft. 

   Mycroft started. An odd warmth invaded his torso.  _Good god, I'm getting soft._ Shockingly, the British Government found himself accepting the timid offering and pretending to nibble at the corner. Rosamund glared at Mycroft; he was treating her like a child.

    Flushing, Mycroft popped the slippery offering in his mouth. He chewed unenthusiastically and swallowed. Fighting again the inclination to grimace, he raised his eyebrows at the child in supplication. "Mmmm...cheese." Mycroft managed to conjure up a tight-lipped, if wavering smile. "Thank you, my dear."

    Rosie laughed merrily. "Cheese!!!" She clapped her grape-stained hands, pleased that he'd accepted her gift. She wouldn't share her precious cheddar with just anyone 

    Mycroft gripped the edge of the table. The cheddar wasn't half bad, Rosie's saliva aside. He couldn't remember when he'd last eaten.

    Shaking his head, Mycroft switched his attention to Brother Mine. Ah. Mind palace. But of course. Expressing a gusty from his lungs, Mycroft pulled out his own chair and settled his elbows on the table. There was nothing to do but wait. He pulled out his phone and nimbly texted his fiance. _My, but times have changed._ When all else has failed, call a woman to straighten up the mess.

*************

    Sherlock wound his way through a myriad of dusty corridors, leaving smeared footprints in his wake. Reaching the dreaded destination, he slipped into the shadowy interior. Welcome to the Hallway of Mirrors, storehouse of his memories of John's wife.

    In the center of the room stood a folding chair. Amenities in the shape of a small mug of tea and a packet of Jaffa cakes rested patiently on a folding aluminium side table. It stood wobbly-legged on the chair's right. The packet of cakes partially obscured a two-inch long oblong...thing. The lumpy object was brown and appeared to have deflated (no - thrown. Squashed whilst smashed against a wall). Blanching, Sherlock crept up to the chair and sat down.

   The Morston vault disturbed Sherlock. It had not been designed for comfort in mind. The tea sat in a state of eternal heat, filling the gloom with fragrant steam.The Jaffa cakes sat unappreciated and untouched. Sherlock felt sightly sick. 

    _There's nothing for it._ Sherlock snapped his trembling fingers and watched fixedly whilst a rectangular movie screen materialized in front of the mirrors beyond. A movie projector popped into existence on his left, a hefty reel of film already loaded and ready for perusal.

      _For John. For John I will do this._

**************

    John climbed up the seventeen stairs to the flat. His mind was a blank.  _There's nothing for it._  The widower eased open the door and stepped in. The sitting room sat abandoned and still.

    A puddle of milk pooled on the floor. The hated briefcase despoiled the top of the coffee table. Rosie's singsong voice rang sweetly in the kitchen. Deductive abilities aside, three things were apparent. Mycroft had not left the flat. Sherlock's Belstaff still hung on the hook in the foyer. Sherlock had not left the flat. Obviously, Rosie was here. He heard her sweet voice in the kitchen. Three men and a baby, left to sort out this mess.

 


	78. Three Men and a Baby, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, Sherlock, and Mycroft are gobsmacked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have heard (but not believ'd) the spirits of the dead  
> May walk again: if such a thing be, thy mother Appeared to me last night; for ne'er was dream  
> So like waking." - William Shakespeare

    Mycroft sat mute as his brother, one leg bouncing nervously whilst perched on the other. There was no point in speaking, at any rate. It didn't take a genius to see that communicating with Sherlock in _this_  state of mind was out of the question. Pun intended.

   At any rate, Mycroft realized that his body had no energy with which to do anything but brood. So, he sat in complete silence and tried to make his racing mind settle.

    Well. A more precise statement would point to the fact that Mycroft remained quiet, not silent. Sherlock's body sat still as the grave. The detective neither moved nor acknowledged his brother. 

    Be that as it may, the chair that Mycroft had selected chose to emit unpleasantly creaky squawking sounds each time that he shifted. He thought of the noise a straw makes when pumped through the hole in a cheap plastic lid.

   "EEE-eee _EEE-eee EEE-eee EER-eee..."_

    Wondering, Mycroft purposefully wiggled the chair a with a bit more oomph. He hoped to jar his brother back into the real world...or at least, to world of 221B. Indeed, sounds _were_ appalling, as the grinding of his teeth attested. The only consequence of note, unfortunately, was the significant injury to Mycroft's tooth enamel. He'd needed that.

    Sherlock didn't blink an eye. Yet, Mycroft considered his efforts still fruitful. The frantically high-pitched squawking forced a deep belly laugh from John's daughter. Tickled, Mycroft giggled high in his throat and wiggled his body some more.

    _Rosamund is...cute._  

     Mycroft huffed and looked away, embarrassed by his unexpectedly emotional thought. He shook his head like a dog in hope to unscramble his brains. _Shit. Dizzy._  Taking a shallow and shaky breath, Mycroft performed a quick self-analysis.  _No...still as addle-pated as a thirteen-year-old girl in the face of so much breathtaking "cute"._

     Enough. He focused back in on little brother. Mycroft concluded that no, in fact, Sherlock really wasn't blinking an eye. He wasn't blinking the other one, either. In point of fact, Mycroft was tempted to put a hand under his nose to double-check that his brother was, in fact, still breathing.

     Rosie slapped her hands on the sodden tray, aggrieved that she had lost Mycroft's attention. "One moment, my dear," Mycroft shushed, "I need to establish that your ' _Papilock'_ is still in the land of the living."

     Wait.  _There._ Sherlock's eyelids fluttered minutely, as if aware of Mycroft's silent scrutiny. _I gather you are roaming your_ _Mind Palace, Brother Mine. Where have you got to now?_

Considering John's daughter in all of her cheesy-grape glory, Mycroft sighed and rose in search of a flannel. Leave it to Sherlock to vanish the minute there's cleaning to be done.

    Rosamund wiggled a fair bit herself, dodging the wet cloth as if dripping with hydrochloric acid "No! Me do it!" She stuck out an imperious hand and made a waving motion with her fingers at the flannel.

    The toddler's eyes blazed; sweet, soft, sky blue irises morphing into electrical sapphire sparks. The sudden shift sent a frisson of ice ripping through Mycroft's spine. From the numerous (and frankly, indistinguishable) photos Sherlock foisted into his face, Mycroft had easily deduced the genetic traits she'd received from John Watson. Here, now, pinned beneath Rosamund's sharp, fearsome glare, Mycroft met only Kukk.

     Rolling his eyes, Mycroft reliquinshed the now-sticky flannel to John's daughter. Such a stubborn child...this was definitely a "John" trait. Mycroft watched, admiring the proficient manner in which Rosamund dispatched with her mess.  _Ahhh...that would be "Kukk"._

     Spying an opportunity, Mycroft deftly extracted the mangled picture of Kukk from the tray and slipped it into his palm. 

    "Oi! Mine!" Rosamund's howled, incensed.

    "One moment, my dear," Mycroft clucked. I need to remove the tray so I can get you out. We wouldn't want Mummy's photo to fall on the floor now, do we?"

    Rosamund's retort came in the form of a dirty flannel flung into Mycroft's face. "Cook! Cook!" She shrieked with the fury of a Tasmanian Devil. Mycroft goggled at John's daughter, not having been faced the wrath of a feisty female child since Euros was born. And the tantrums Euros displayed whilst still a toddler were... _other_ _._

Stuffing the soggy scrap of pulp in his pocket, Mycroft wiped the goo off of his cheek with his forearm. He unhooked the tray as quickly as he was able, desirous of nothing more than to shut her up. He'd made an aggregious error in judgement. This was no innocent child... this was the golden-haired daughter of Satan.

     "Rosamund...please! Just a moment!" In on frantic movement, Rosamund kicked out with her legs and jack-knifed out of the high chair. To Mycroft's amazement, the toddler landed on her feet. She instantly began searching for the pocket in his trousers, screaming "Mine! Mine!" He blindly set the tray on the table and stepped back.

    Seconds later, Mycroft nearly let his own scream fly. Sherlock, in perfect synchrony with the Watson child's evasive maneuvers, popped up straight out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box.

    " _Mycroft!_ What are you doing to Watson!" he thundered, standing tall. Sherlock puffed out his chest indignantly, the mother bird protecting her young. "And in God's name, why is she accosting your legs?"

    "I...wait, dear...one moment, _please..._ " he gasped, twisting away from her persistent and very strong fingers, "recovered the paper that Rosamund had taken with the printout of her mother's face on it. I put it in my trouser pocket for safe-keeping."

    "Why ever did you do such a thing?" Sherlock scowled. "Isn't losing her mother enough for you, without having to deny her one lousy photo?" He gently unhooked the toddler's chubby fingers from the Kung-Fu grip she'd maintained on his brother's leg. Lifting her high in his arms, Sherlock gave the little girl a loving squeeze.

    "Alright, Watson, calm down," Sherlock tutted. "I've got you now. We'll fix mean Uncle Mycroft, won't we?" The duo shot Mycroft identical glares, and Mycroft suspected that "nurturing" Sherlock provided was just as strong a factor for the child as the "nature" of her parent's genes.

    "Sherlock, this information is under severe security restrictions and you know it. It is imperative that I return the printout to the file."

    " _Mycroft,"_ Sherlock hissed, "either you return that picture to Watson or I," he emphatically jiggled Rosie to make his point clear, "release the hound." 

    "Oh, for God's sake, take it, take it!" Mycroft groaned. Fishing the mangled paper out of his pocket he handed it to Rosamund's imperious hand. "I will need to retrieve it at some point, Sherlock. It is not by choice, but in the interests of protecting" he gesticulated to the corners of the flat, "all of you."

Sherlock's eyes cast down to the floor. For once, he found no quarrel with Mycroft's words. "Will you let her have it for now, though, at least?"

     "Not a problem. Shall we return to the sitting room and perhaps examine...well, how do I phrase this? Figure out why Rosamund's name for her mother sounds identical to...to the surname Kukk? For God's sake, what happened to 'Mummy'!"

    At this, Sherlock's expression fluctuated wildly, from trepidation, to anxiety, to fear, and then blankness. He nodded in aquiescence. "Agreed." The trio had just settled down when Dr. John Watson opened the door.

 *********

    "John!" Sherlock shouted, jumping to his feet and crossed the room in four long strides. Unabashedly, he swallowed John up in his arms, and John clutched him back with white-knuckled fingers and buried his face in Sherlock's neck.

    "I'm sorry for dodging out like that." John murmured into Sherlock's ear. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't trying to hurt you. I just needed some air."

    Rosie watched this exchange suspiciously. It seemed to Mycroft as if she was carefully weighing the exchange in her tiny mind; was Daddy okay, or did she need to jump in and save him?

    It had always amused Mycroft by how John's charisma and quiet strength blinded most people to his short stature. He believed John measured roughly 1.5 metres in stocking feet, petite by the most flexible of standards.

    Nevertheless, for a full three years John had served as a combat army surgeon, usually in the fiercest of gun battles. Moreover, the recently invalided veteran had saved his brother's life the very night they had met.

    Height did not define John Watson; tenacity and fearlessness did. Cradled child-like in Sherlock's looping arms, though, the doctor seemed diminished and shrunken and...small.

    Vulnerable. Hurting. Afraid.

    It appeared that Rosamund had put two and two together as well, by the speed at which she scrambled over to her father's side. The child flung tiny arms around John's right thigh and proceeded to squeeze it dry. John winced, leg buckling slightly at the knee. "Oi! Rosie, I'm alright, I'm ok." He slid part-way from under Sherlock forearms and rubbed her shaking torso. She buried her face in his aching muscle, wailing "Da!"

    The three men exchanged glances. This was chaos, and the situation must rectified, if only for Rosie's sake. Sherlock scooped up the toddler and they settled down on the couch near to Mycroft. Rosie snugged up in the middle, between two sets of legs. Contrite, John murmured soft words of comfort whilst kneading her tensed-up shoulders. Sherlock opted for stroking her hair.

    "It's okay. You're okay. I'm sorry for scaring you and Papi. I didn't mean to leave without giving you a kiss goodbye." Once Rosie's sniffled had ebbed, John whispered, "Can I give you a kiss and hug?"

    Rosie sniffled and nodded, meeting her father halfway for a soggy smack on the lips. Sherlock beamed. "Me too, Watson. Don't forget about me." Rosie kissed his full lips with enthusiastic glee. Hmmm. Her lips tasted faintly of cheese.

     Mycroft sensed something strange roiling in his stomach. Emotion. An uncomfortable twinge of jealousy rose up whilst observing their open affection. Surely, he and Sherlock had never cuddled up with their own parents in this way. Perhaps this was part of the problem.

    Now that Rosie's upset had eased and Da has been saved, she remembered the  _very important thing_ she had desperately needed to share. How to make these men understand? Best to start at the beginning. That's what babies do, after all.

   **********

    When it got dark, and her mouth kept on yawning, Da took Rosie upstairs.

    Each night, Da said the same things, read the same story, and brought her to bed the same way. Rosie liked predictable routines and patterns. She desiredregularity,  _craved_ it even. Aunt Molly was great, and Uncle Greg too, but no one kept a schedule like Da.

    The very last thing they did before the light went away was to blow Picture Mummy a kiss. As one, they pursed identical thin lips and smacked a loud kiss in the air.    

     Sometimes, Da's face went all frowny. Rosie couldn't tell if he felt angry or sad...or maybe, both at the very same time. Rosie knew what she felt. The burning of her belly and heat in her cheeks meant that she was  _angry._ Rosie was angry that Mummy had gone.

    Mummy left Daddy. Mummy left Rosie. Why did  _she_ get a kiss when she'd left them with none? Sometimes, she didn't think Mummy even deserved a kiss when she'd  made Daddy so sad.

    No. Rosie was good, and Rosie was sweet. She believed this because Daddy had said so. He told her this every day. Rosie would be good. Rosie would be sweet. Kissing Picture Mummy was important to Da, and so she made it important as well. 

   Daddy was good. Daddy was kind. Mummy have made him so sad that he'd hided away. He left just like Mummy had, without kissing her goodbye. But her Daddy had come back. Mummy had not. Mummy got kisses, but Rosie would not say her name.

    And then.

     _Mummy_ came back.  _Mummy_ was good.  _Mummy_ was kind. She sang Rosie silly songs and did a very special thing. Mummy'd given Rosie her  _true_ name, the one Mummy's Mummy had given to her.

    Mummy gave Rosie a secret. Now, when Da asked Rosie to blow kisses at Picture Mummy, Rosie didn't feel angry. Instead, she felt sad. Mummy's name tangled up her tongue. The sounds twisted her lips. She wanted to share it with Daddy, but her mouth wasn't able to do it.

    Until now. Rosie had been practicing once tucked away in bed, and now she was going to share.

    "Watson," Papi said, wiping his lips, "why do you call Mummy 'Cook'?" He slowly uncurled her fist and gathered up her prize. "Will you please tell me why?"

   "Dis is Cook!" the child exclaimed with intense concentration. "Ro-zah Ly-ah Mah-re Cook. Mummy!"

    Oh! She had done it! Proud, she wiggled onto her knees and grabbed Daddy around his neck. "Dat's Mummy, Da. Look!" John's daughter snatched the printout from between the detective's fingers and thwacked it against her father's chest. "See? Look, Daddy, look!"

    John, Sherlock, and Mycroft were gobsmacked.  

 

     

 


	79. Three Men and a Baby, Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three men and a baby utterly lose it. Thankfully, a woman comes to clean up the mess.

    John's mouth worked strangely, as if seeking the appropriate question or phrase. Unfortunately, no vocabulary existed for the things he was feeling; no language existed to manifest his thoughts. John folded his lips in on themselves and sealed them tightly.

     The widower plucked the paper from his daughter's fingers, meticulously smoothing out the wrinkles on the flat of his thigh. John's right hand trembled, and he drew it in tight with bitter resolve. Savagely shaking out his fingers, he reached down to brush the blurred ink. Who had this woman been, really? Had he honestly ever known her at all?

    Mycroft's eyes grew large and unfocused. He'd been disturbed by the child's uncanny behavior, and now he felt bloody unhinged. Only one cohesive thought sprang to mind - _How very odd, that_ _cheap government-issue printing paper_   _should have long ago disintegrated The child's manhandling alone should have done it, but the grapes....well. Score one for the British Requisitions Department. Somewhere, a supply clerk is just dying for the commendation._

Sherlock's cheeks drained of color. His focus shifted elsewhere, to a far-off, remote region of endless sands and scorching sun...to The Room of Lucid Dreams. He'd stored the memory meticulously, in the place he'd much rather not revisit. The bulk of the detective's dreams, whilst vivid in color and clarity, usually cut to the quick. Sherlock seldom enjoyed lingering on their meanings; hence, the quick retrieval and archiving of the more significant of the lot.

    Yet, had this... _thing..._ not been a dream? His clandestine desert rendezvous with Mary gave every impression of being real. It had felt real, certainly, but he was a logician. It was pure, cold reason which he held dear. Even all this aside, after the...dream...he'd woken up, or regained consciousness, whatever, sweaty and stuck to the bed sheets. At half two in the morning. A dream, and only a dream.

    _But._

    It was Mary's voice in his head, forcing him to action. The hyper-realistic dream. The fig. The things she had said. _And to top it all off,_ _I hear_ _Mary's voice_ _in my head. I hear Mary's voice in my head whilst awake, in the street, helping John. What could that possibly mean? This crosses the boundaries of reason into lunacy._

Rosie turned and gave each man a hard look. This was not the reaction she'd been hoping for. She was bewildered...and somewhat offended. She'd shared the news of a lifetime, the news of  _her_ lifetime, and this was what she got? Three men, chasing flies? She didn't understand.

Rosie patted her father's cheeks with her hands in an effort to regain his attention. Da flinched back from her touch, startled out of his trance. John's daughter dropped her hands from his face, clenching them tight against her chest. A tiny whimper escaped from her lips.

     His eyes met hers, and it immediately triggered another crying fit for the little girl. She'd made her Da angry? Afraid? She didn't understand why. Rosie had imagined her Daddy being so happy with her, with Rosie finally speaking Mummy's name. He'd tried so hard, so many times to make Rosie to say it, but she just couldn't.

     Now, the only thing she'd accomplished for her efforts was to have Daddy's face squoosh up and his eyes flash cold fire. Rosie wasn't being very good now, was she? Rosie wasn't being very kind.

    The toddler's lower lip quivered with spastic intensity, and she'd geared up for a proper wail when John snapped out of his fugue. He pulled her into his chest, murmuring soft, nonsense words in her ear. The paper fell to the floor.

    Mycroft's eyes met those of his brother's. The elder Holmes gave a vehement tip his head in John's direction, a clear indication to "Do something! Anything! And get on with it quickly lest I completely lose the plot." Sherlock cleared his throat, wondering how in God's name to proceed with a logical line of questioning. No logic-based ideas sprang forth. Frankly, there were none to be had.

     _Well, when in Rome..._

    "Watson," he soothed, "you gave Daddy a big surprise just now, didn't you? No worries, love. He is not angry with you." Sherlock touched the child's damp cheek, and she turned her blue eyes to his.

     "Now...who is this, please? You called Mummy a big name." He reached down a large hand to pluck up the scrap. "Tell Papi who this is."

     Rosie snuffled, and John stroked her back. "It's okay, Sweets. I'm all right. Papi was right. You surprised Daddy, that's all. I'm not angry."

    Smearing snot across her cheeks with a chubby forearm, Rosie blinked away her fear and started to sing at the top of her toddler lungs.

     "Pood-LAL mai-ya MAY-ta cees, wai-tsis stahk-mash PLAI-ya wahgna..."

     Mycroft's voice cut through Rosie's singing, and she stopped, startled by his intensity. " _Oh my God... that's Estonian._ John. Your child is singing an Estonian children's song about...about a reindeer, I believe. Sherlock?" Mycroft turned to look at his brother, face as white as any Estonian winter. Sherlock nodded dumbly.

    "That's not possible," John stuttered. She's never been exposed to  _any_ Estonian, ever! Well, maybe Molly's heritage isn't strictly English, but I know that she's never been... _Jesus. Jesus._  Is that where...Sherlock ...I..." He burst into tears, and Rosie followed suit. 

      _This is getting completely out of hand._ Mycroft rose to his feet and practically flew over to the windows. He attempted to regain his composure, but failed miserably. His legs shook within their expensive trousers, and he prayed that the others hadn't noticed.

 _I'm upset_. _I'm upset! I'm upset because the Watson's are upset. Christ, are my eyes burning? I'm near to tears because of observing their tears. A parasympathetic response to...possibly an emphathetic response to..._

 _Just watching! I'm just watching! I don't even know what the hell is going on in this miserable flat and I am this close to coming undone. I'm never upset. I've never been prone to what I consider to be frankly hysterical behavior, the type of which is demonstrated on a daily basis by_ _the detritus of the Commonweath. The very idea that I have become upset due to observing another human's upset is...bloody upsetting!_

Sherlock his hid face in his hands, body trembling. He didn't understand what the hell happened, but he felt like he'd let loose a bomb with his questions.

     It was at this point that the real brains of the family arrived.

 


	80. Three Men and a Barrel of Monkeys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alicia lends her support.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there, gentle readers. Out of sheer boredom (and not a small amount of writer's block), I scrolled through the earlier chapters of this story. OOOOOOHHHHH....the typos. I can't believe I had so many typos. I only went through and tried to a few chapters, so typos still abound. 
> 
> The horror...the horror...As one of those snot-nosed people who quietly correct other people's grammar and spelling, I send my sincere thanks for slogging through the chapters, seeing the irritating typos, and then still continuing to read. Unless you see, but do not observe. Then, gentle readers...the game is on.

   Chaos reigned for an extremely tedious thirty-four minutes and sixteen seconds after Lady Smallwood marched through the threshold. Not that Sherlock was keeping track, or anything - Mycroft was doing it for him.

    International crises (they were dealing with an Estonian assassin, after all) were an everyday affair in Mycroft's world. As a result he'd honed his natural skills of deduction into something more...an almost preternatural ability to evaluate a crisis. He solved problems before they occurred. Reinforcements stormed in, weapons were replenished, last minute peace treaties drafted and signed; whatever was required, Mycroft delivered.

    Here, today, at this particular moment of crisis, Mycroft had no fucking idea of what to do. Psychic toddler mediums were unequivicably not his area. Ghostly visitations fell outside his division. The entire situation reeked of * _silent shiver* **sentiment.**_

   Precognitive powers kicking in to bolster the troops, Mycroft pressed for aid. Now the Calvary rushed in, albeit in the form of a diminutive blonde in conservative kit and come-hither eyes. The British Government's blood pressure promptly dropped thirty points, much to Sherlock's relief. Mycroft _really_  needed to drop a few stone.

    Alicia swept into 221B like a breath of fresh air. Rosie was cuddled, comforted, changed, and snuggled (by all three men and a Lady, no less) before being shipped off to sleep. It was now that the real work began.

    Lady Smallwood studied the three men who sat exhausted, unmoored, undone, and unhinged. Unbelievable. Exactly what had befallen Mycroft in the course of two hours ? They'd shared a short but sweet phone call on his ride to the flat. He'd happily confirmed their plans for a late evening dinner... and suggested several rather titillating after-dinner sweets. Alicia smirked salaciously. Mycroft preferred his desserts rich, particularly when smothered in cream.

   As per the norm, business came before pleasure. "Start at the beginning," Alicia commanded. She sat adjacent to Mycroft and placed a warm hand on his thigh. "I think that is for the best, yes?" The three men nodded in unison like wobbly puppets on string.

    After a subtle, shared look with his brother, Mycroft outlined the facts. John sighed heavily and leaned his temple on Sherlock's shoulder. This untenable situation might directly revolve around his family, primarily, his precious child; however the flood of confusion swamping his mind robbed his brain of coherent speech.

    "Thank you, Mycroft," Alicia murmured, straightening her skirt. "I'm rather...this is...John, this is an unusual event for your daughter, I take it? The first time she's spoken any, _ahem_ , Estonian, and/or spoken her mother's birth name?"

    John nodded dumbly, scrubbing at the stubble on his chin. "We...I never even knew my wife's given name. And Rosie was so much younger when her mother was..." here John choked up and he painfully cleared his throat, "murdered. She barely spoke English, let alone  _Estonian."_

     Sherlock reversed positions with John, pulling the little man tight to his chest. John's eyes watered, but he'd be  _damned_ if he was going to waste anymore tears on that woman, whomever she was. John clutched at Sherlock's arm to mask their fierce trembling.

    "The question I am asking myself is, what does this all mean?" The woman turned to regard Sherlock's partner. In a gentle voice she said "And more to the point, John, does Rosie's awareness change anything? You were already aware of Mary's occupation." One of John's shoulders shrugged in a "How the bloody hell do I know?" kind of way.

    Alicia reached out to clasp his cold hand, lips tightened with sympathy. "She shot Sherlock, John. Now we've discovered that she set shop with..." She dropped her eyes pensively, "James Moriarty. It's a horrible business, love, but it's over and done."

     John opened his mouth in protest, and then shut it with a click. What  _did_ this all mean? Mary had  _never **ever**_ spoken about her origins. She'd given him her precious flash drive, but John knew that it only contained information about the life she led as an assassin. Honestly, he believed that even that data had been manufactured, buffed up and polished for general consumption.

      _Fucking_   _"Orphan's lot" my ass!_

     Sherlock had previously deduced that John's wife was born and raised outside of the UK. The detective gave up this juicy tidbit after that cock-up in Leinster Gardens. Mary had just shot Sherlock in the heart. In the heart! No matter how many times the thought rose in his mind, John's own heart stuttered in fear. It had been such a near thing.

    Sherlock, took the first step - although he somewhat regretted it. If they wanted to solve this puzzle, his partner needed to speak. "John?" he queried. "Talk to me."

     John's face flushed red in frustration.  _"I don't know!"_ He reared his head back and glared. "I don't know what it means, Sherlock, and it scares the ever-living fuck out of me! I don't... it's like that dream, the... and... fuck it." He buried his head in his hands, but everyone in the room could hear as he gritted out "I am so. Fucking. Tired of being sad! Of being angry, and guilty and in pain, and... _fuck it._  Just let me be!"

    Sherlock grabbed John by the shoulders and yanked him back to his chest. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." The detective rocked the widower in his arms like an infant, and John let him, despite the audience.

    Mycroft clutched at Alicia's arm. He was shocked to feel tears welling in his eyes, something that hadn't happened in a very, very long time. Alicia wiped moisture from her own lower lids and sniffed. "Okay. Okay, maybe that is something we'll never know. Maybe it's something that we don't need to know."

    "It is what it is." Sherlock whispered.

    John swallowed hard. "Look. I can say for a fact that Rosie has never been exposed to...what she spoke tonight. Those words. That song." He bit a thumbnail, thinking. "Maybe Mary sung to her when I was gone or not paying attention, yeah? But I don't think so. She was too careful." 

     "And she most certainly wouldn't have shared her true name - not with a child. Too risky," said Mycroft.

     The other three people in the room nodded. John spoke again. "I have other...no. No. I...I have nothing else to say, Mycroft, Alicia. I think I am done with this evening. I just need to get some sleep and maybe think about it again tomorrow." He rested his head on his palm. "Or maybe not."

    Lady Smallwood rose gracefully from her seat and smoothed the back of her skirt. Mycroft popped up two seconds later, embarrassed that he'd not caught the cue.

    "I sincerely hope that whatever is happening with your daughter ceases troubling you, John." She stepped forward, smiling gently. "If either of you needs me for anything, you know where to find me. After all, now we're family." Alicia wiggled her ring finger, making the point. 

    The men on the couch goggled at the size of her diamonds. "Good God, Mycroft, skimming funds from the government again?" Sherlock quipped. 

    "Nonsense. I've been saving for a rainy day," Mycroft sneered.

    "And it's raining!" Alicia sung. The men laughed, tension popping like soapsuds.

    John stood, flapping a hand awkwardly. "Goodbye. Er, thank you for coming, Alicia." The lady smiled, tilting her head in acknowledgement.

    Sherlock escorted the couple to the door, smiling his thanks. "Have a good night, Alicia. Big Brother?

     "Little Brother?" Mycroft parroted over his shoulder as he escorted Alicia down the stairs with a solicitous elbow. 

      Sherlock waited until he heard them leave the building. He carefully shut and locked their front door. Turning, he spied John looking lost and exhausted. "Come to bed, John. Let's snuggle." John brightened, and they clasped each other's hand as they went to their room.

    

    

    

     

   


	81. Tongue-Tied and Starry-Eyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock spill the last of their secrets, no holds barred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Here's what love is: a smoke made out of lovers' sighs. When the smoke clears love is a fire burning in your lover's eyes." - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
> 
> "Love comforteth like sunshine after rain." - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
> 
> "Take him and cut him out in little stars, and he will make the face of Heaven so fine that all the world will be in love with night and pay no worship to the garish sun." - William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet

    The flat's absolute silence was deafening. It rung as a high-pitched whine in their ears. Sherlock curled his long body around John protectively...possessively. If John wearied of suffering, Sherlock tired of rage.

    Sherlock loved the doctor so intensely it hurt. Literally. John's pain provoked a visceral response in his own body. The very notion soured his stomach and interrupted his sleep, provoked mind-splitting headaches and fretful anxiety. What was intolerable though, was how John's pain flooded Sherlock's heart with an all-consuming fury, from which he had no respite.

    Sherlock suddenly started. John had twisted to nuzzle at the side of his neck. "I can feel your heart rate, love. It's far too fast to be normal. I know you're upset."

   "Of course I'm upset!" Sherlock snapped. He shook his head, amending his tone. "Of course I am upset. Today...was impossible. Illogical. And you  _left!_ You just off and left the flat and I didn't know what you were doing, or when you'd come back, and - I...I was frightened."

    John reached up to stroke Sherlock's cheek. "I'm so sorry, love, so, so sorry." He propped up on his elbows and flipped up to his knees. "Do you remember that day in the hospital...wait, of course you remember it, I'm so stupid. That day when I woke up screaming after that horrible nightmare about Mar- " he stumbled, then spat out, "my dead wife."

     "Yes, John." Sherlock rose up to sit with his legs crossed, elbows on knees. "Yes, I do. Vividly."

     John sensed bile rising up to his mouth. "Right." He gave a hard swallow, pushing away the bitterness. "Understand that this is really, really hard for me to say, yeah?" He peered down at Sherlock, half-hidden in shadows "Because, I thought I was going crazy. I was utterly pissed every minute of the day, and nearly out of my mind with grief and guilt." 

    Sherlock nodded, expecting for John to go on. John tarried, however, picking at a torn toenail with his head tucked into his chest. The room mostly dark, the detective was at a loss as to what John was thinking. "Whatever you have to tell me is fine, John. You know that." A wry smile dimples one cheek. "It's  _all fine."_

John huffed softly in amusement. "Right." Sucking in an enormous breath, he opened his mouth. John tilted his head and into the direction of Sherlock's face. He straightened, and then stilled. Sherlock felt the rush of John's breath as he expelled warm air in a rush.

    "Can I - ?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the small lamp on the bedside table.

    John nodded. He winced, face crinkling into itself as sudden light filled the room. "Jesus," he groaned, rubbing his temples. "I feel like I'm getting a migraine."

    "Budge up," Sherlock said, gently nudging John over with his hands. John moved closer to the middle of the bed, and Sherlock flipped a long leg behind a hip to cradle John between his spread legs. Rubbing his lover's diminutive shoulders and neck, Sherlock tucked his nose behind John's ear and whispered, "When you're ready, John. Take your time."

    Slowly, John felt the tightness of his muscles ease, his left shoulder unfreeze. Sherlock's hands had the capacity to perform all kinds of magic. Although, what else could one expect when the man slipped phones from the pockets of serial killers and badges off of Lestrade? Sherlock's long, slender fingers drew pleasure from John's body until he lost all rhyme or reason. Surely, he was a wonder, and he belonged only to John.

    Eventually, John placed a hand over his shoulder to clasp at Sherlock's. "Thank you, love. I feel much better." Scooting back and around, the widower faced his love once again. This time, the low yellow cast of lamplight limned Sherlock's sleek, severe cheekbones and sensual lips.

     John reached up to place a soft hand on Sherlock's cheek. "I thought I was going mad, you know? My life had fallen apart and everything that I thought that I wanted had been taken away." He shook his head slowly. "How did I not see the treasure that was before me all along?"

   "John," Sherlock cajoled. "It wasn't our time. I don't believe that either of us were ready to admit to our feelings. I practically shat bricks when you finally kissed me."

    John giggled merrily. "I wanted you for so long, and so  _hard!_ I'm surprised I didn't tackle you right then and there and rip off your clothes!"

     "Well, as I recall most clearly you..."

     John put up his hands. "You can just stop it right there, thank you very much. I guess...I guess that the point that I am trying to make is that falling in love with you saved me. You saved me from myself, from my rage and my hatred and from all of the things that were killing me. You stopped  _me_ from killing me. You're my savior," John sniffed, swiping his eyes. "Jesus, am I tired of the waterworks. Sherlock...I love you. I love you and I always will."

    "John." Sherlock sighed. "My fantastic and marvelous John. My conductor of light. I love you too, John, so much I can barely breathe for it."

     They sat there together, quiet and still. Eventually, John gripped his own biceps and grunted. "Okay. Here goes. When I...when I was going insane and acting like a lunatic I  _heard..._ yeah. I heard Mary talking to me. I mean, I'd  _seen_ her, hallucinated her for quite a bit after she died. But I  _knew_ I was having hallucinations. I  _knew_ I was delusional."

    "I remember, John." Sherlock said, stroking along the edge of John's knee. "I saw you talking to her, after...well, you know."

     "Yeah. But after all of that  _bullshit_ when I'd stopped seeing Mary...I heard her. I was never able to tell if I heard her with my ears or just generated her words in my mind. She shouted at me, you know? Just like Mary, to provoke me rather than sympathize."

      _Yes, how very like an assassin._ Sherlock bit his lip, remembering the icy fingers of fear crawling up his neck upon hearing John's brilliant, innocent daughter carefully...oh so carefully, articulate her mother's true name. Rosamund clearly had a gift for language. He'd deduced that the moment she'd spoken her first word. Watson might be clever, but she was no Einstein. This was something different. Something...not natural.

     "I -  hell, John, if you postulated your own fall in to madness... I - ."

     "What. What is it, Sherlock? What are you on about?" John leaned over, inspecting his lover's face. 

    "Imagine how that time was for me, John, mind robbed of cognizant function, half-dead from drug use..."

    "Yeah, not our finest hour, was it?" John smirked. "Go on."

     "What I am trying to make out is... I   _experienced_ the exact same phenomenon. Mary's voice in my head. She yelled at me, John, she bossed me around like a fishmonger's wife, telling me what to do and how to save you."

     John's jaw dropped. "She did? You what?"

     "Yes, John. When you'd gotten hurt in the alley, and Mycroft's idiot minions - sorry for that, by the way - I was hiding behind a skip when I heard Mary telling me to intervene. I took that to mean that I was to beat the snot out of them. So, I did."

    "And then I screamed at you."

    "Hush. That's not what we're talking about. And, that wasn't the only time it happened. I also had a dream that I suppose that I should tell you about."

    "What? A dream about Mary? Why didn't you tell me before?" John demanded, sounding cross.

     Sherlock grimaced. "Two reasons, John. One, it was not very pleasant; rather upsetting, actually. Two, I didn't feel like it would benefit you by the telling. I assumed it to be," Sherlock flipped out a hand, "just one of those things. I stored it in mind palace and moved on."

     "Tell me it now, Sherlock. I may not want to hear it, but considering how our daughter has apparently turned bilingual I think it might be rather significant."

     Sherlock froze, mind spinning in circles. His daughter. John said "our daughter". His daughter. _His daughter._

    "Sherlock? Are you in there?" John rapped lightly on Sherlock's forehead with his knuckles. "Yes. Our daughter. I am her father, you are her father. Now snap out of it and tell me about your dream."

   The detective smiled woozily. "Huhng. Hnng. Right."

     And, so he did. Difficult as their feelings were, they were partners now. They,  _they_ were raising a child. No more secrets. Not now, not ever. They were family.

     The couple chattered on through the night, eventually lying back down to snuggle and cozy up in the sheets. Sherlock switched off the light some time after 3 am, and the words kept flowing like water down a stream.

    At last, the words that had needed to be spoken for so very long had been said. Minds light and hearts free, the lovers napped and let Rosie sleep in. It was time that they all had a rest.


	82. Doppelgangers Trump Goldfish, Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Alicia chill out after a lovely, fluffy dessert. Alicia pokes the bear...or in this case,you pokes the Mycroft. Mycroft, uncomfortable about keeping such a large part of himself separate from his fiance, confesses his deepest secret. It won't be easy ( and may take more than one chapter, *har*) but the truth will out in the end.
> 
> Hey... I totally revamped this, just letting you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I don't want to be alone. I want to be left alone." - Audrey Hepburn
> 
> "The better part of valor is discretion." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "A little more than kin, and less than kind." - William Shakespeare

    Mycroft cradled Alicia in his arms, utterly spent. Sweat beaded across his brow and pooled under his back. _I_ _really_   _need to lose_ _a few_   _stone._  Humming contentedly, Alicia languidly reached up to fondle his chest. She leisurely trailed her index finger between Mycroft's nipples, pausing every so often to twist the wiry red hair that she found.

    Gently tugging at a twist of fuzz, Alicia snagged Mycroft's attention. She grinned up at him, mightily pleased with herself. She was the cat who'd caught the canary.

     "You know, Mycroft," the lady cooed, "when I gave you my card, I rather expected to find it wedged between the teeth of your paper shredder. I doubted that you would view my proposal as anything other than an inconvenient nuisance." She let go of his curls to snuggle in deeper under his arm. He solicitously tugged the duvet over her breasts.

_Chilly._

Mycroft snuffled softly into her top knot. Stray blonde tendrils of hair tickled his nose, and he rubbed at the itch with his forearm to conceal his amusement. "I was rather shocked myself, my dear Alicia. Running the government is extremely time consuming... as you are aware." 

     Mycroft immediately regretted the flippancy of his response. Alicia pushed up on her elbows and flashed an inscrutable look into his eyes. Feeling somewhat offput, Mycroft swiftly navigated up to a cross-legged position.

    "Give me a little credit, Mycroft. I _too_ am a civil servant, thank you very much. What I am trying to say is - . Hmmm." Alicia frowned down at the sheets, conscientiously parsing her words. "Mycroft." She stroked his thigh.

     He placed a hand over her own, stilling  her movements. Mycroft's gaze lifted deliberately, eyebrows eventually disappearing under his fringe. "Alicia. For heaven's sake my dear, spit it out. Since when have you ever struggled for words?"

     Alicia snickered. "Point taken. Mycroft. I find it necessary to express certain _sentiments_. Things I've desired to tell you for a very long time. Things that might make you uncomfortable."

     Mycroft's eyes reversed direction and dove down past his nose. "Rather ominous of you, dear one." He frowned warily. "Perhaps I should then beg you to hold on to them for another day?"

    "Not ominous, Mycroft, simply serious," she said. "Tonight, bearing witness to the incredible relationship your brother and John Watson share, I realized these things _must_ be said. For both our sakes."

    "Alicia," Mycroft hurriedly blurted. "Do you have doubts? Have you changed your mind about - ."

    _"Absolutely not,_ you silly man," Alicia indignantly sputtered. "Nothing could be further from the truth. You can trust in me, Mycroft." She patted his chest. "Trust that the love I feel for you is real, very real." She moved down to his thigh, stroking softly as soothing a lost kitten.

    Mycroft's face lightened a tad yet still reflected trepidation "Thank goodness for that!" Rubbing his thumb over his lips, the man set to pondering. "Now that you're not breaking my heart," he grinned, "you've spiked my curiosity. Please go on."

    "I know how little you care about what people think of you," Alicia said.

    "Quite so. I've really never seen the whole point. Not as a child, and certainly not now. People are fickle fools, Alicia. You know I'm not a warm, fuzzy man...in most cases," he giggled, scrubbing his chest.  "Changing one's behavior to please other people is fruitless and futile. I won't do it."

   "And yet I find myself mightily pleased, dear heart, and only partly because you are a dead-sexy man." She tightly gripped his thigh as he tried to scoot back. "Hold still, Mycroft. Stop acting like a bashful schoolboy, and listen."

    "I have always held you in the highest esteem since our first introduction. Hmm... No, that's not entirely true. I wasn't thrilled with being accused of espionage." Mycroft wiggled uncomfortably. "I must confess I cast a few aspersions your way whilst in confinement."

   Mycroft, wrinkling his nose, fought off the temptation to inquire.

   "My dear,  you hold all of England in your hands." Mycroft opened his mouth in protest, closing it again under Alicia's lethal glare. "I believe you must admit that the Commonweath is much better for it." Mycroft began to feel warm. "People know. People understand the sacrifices you've made, and are grateful."

   "That's the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard pass your  lips. The average citizen feels cowed by me, not indebted," he snorted.

   "Listen, my darling. Each and every day, you place England's needs ahead of your own. _Each and every day_ since I've met you."

     Mycroft gazed up to the ceiling again, starting to feel like a yo-yo. "Don't you dare ignore me, you absolute nob," Alicia snorted. "I've been dying to say that for ages."

     Mycroft huffed, but refocused on his fiance as she playfully tweaked his nipple. "Ouch! Easy with me, love, I am tender," he pouted, rubbing at the offended nub.

    "As I have always suspected. My God, Mycroft, _someone_ should have told you how truly remarkable you are, and yet I feel it has not been so. Come here." She fruitlessly patted the bed by her hip. He twisted away in dissention, embarrassed.

     She sighed. "Another observation that genuinely astounds me, Mycroft, is your unwavering devotion to your brother."

     Now, Mycroft rolled his eyes in exaggerated irritation and squeezed at his nose with a sulky moue. "Is there a point to these flattering words? My brother's portraiture is considerably _less_  flattering then yours. He is of the mind that my sole aspirations in life involve obtaining world domination and control over the entire global marketplace - when not in pursuit of controlling his life, that is."

      Alicia tittered. "How very amusing...and completely delusional. Whenever would you find the spare time? You're contending with Putin and his pet orangutan," she flipped a hand westward. "So busy tracking Muslim extremists you don't eat or sleep for days on end?" She flipped a hand east. "Not to mention our issues with North Korean dictators, and China, the drought in the Sudan...I think not." 

   "Oh, but Alicia...I must protest when it comes to my brother," Mycroft sneered, gesturing to himself. "I'm a stalker, my dear. No more and no less. A stalker and a busybody and control freak. By rights, my brother deserves to be let alone. He is an adult, after all."

    Alicia snorted derisively. "Pardon me, but I wholeheartedly disagree with that opinion. He is  _not_ an adult. He is a child prodigy with extremely long legs and a trust fund." She propped up on her elbows and gazed at Mycroft with levity mixed with a hint of sorrow. 

    "You're a hero, Mycroft Holmes. You're so much more than a minder for Sherlock, and you _know..._ forgive me for saying this, that he would be...unable to live independently without your intervention. Good God, how old were you when he stopped talking?

    "Twelve, I believe." Tangled tendrils of milky hair trailed down Alicia's shoulders. Mycroft longed to bury his reddening face within it's depths to hide his discomfiture. Where was this coming from, and more significantly, where Alicia going with this? 

   "Twelve? Twelve?!" She sputtered, appalled. "My dear Mycroft, has anyone ever tended to you as a child? You were a barely a teenager! How  _dare_ your parents neglect your own   needs as their son."

    Mycroft merely shrugged. "As I have stated before, my - ."  

    "How many years have you been held responsible for Sherlock? For Euros? How unfair and utterly selfish!"

     "Alicia, please!" Mycroft squirmed. He couldn't remember experiencing this level of distress since the tarmac. "May we please stop talking about this now? I did what I had to do because I had the skill set for it and my parents did not. There is nothing remarkable that I have ever done, other than to live up to my potential!"

   "Mycroft, oh my darling man...my lovely, ridiculous man." She tapped him one his nose with affection. "You possess more intelligence in your little finger than the population of the UK combined, but my dear fiance, you are an idiot."

    "What? This isn't exactly the sort of pillow talk I was hoping for." Mycroft thrust his fingers into the nape of his lover's neck and gently combed out the snarls. "I'd rather not be mocked whilst in such a vulnerable position." 

    "I have no desire to mock you, Mycroft. But, as I am to be your wife shortly, I...well, I suppose - ." Alicia's cheeks  rivaled Mycroft's as they flushed bright pink.

     "Alicia. I have absolutely no inkling as to what you are getting at, other than to place me on some ludicrous platform whilst insulting my parents."

     "Mycroft. Listen. I love you. I've had feelings for  _ages._  And yet, I had no clue as to whether you were attracted to _me._  Or... anyone. Ever. I didn't know if there was a place for me here..." she touched his chest, "or in your life in any capacity other than co-worker. The sheer effrontery of my actions in pursuing you...I - ."

     Mycroft stilled. For once, he had nothing to say. Fear spiked through his abdomen. Amusement? Why not. Lust? You bet your arse. Desire? Absolutely. Love? Just so. These sentiments Mycroft happily shared with Alicia. Other, more cloying emotions were confusing, and messy, and difficult. 

    Mycroft snorted, rolling his eyes in exaggerated incredulity. "My dear...may we please move on? I'm going to blush."

    She gave a fierce shake of her head. "Absolutely not! Now pay attention. You need to hear this. It's very important."

    "You are a patient, and kind, and wonderful man, and I love every minute of your attention. And yet."

    _How to put this without hurting him?_  "I'm aware of the the control you exert over emotion. Until me...you lived alone, in every sense."

     Mycroft's eyes closed in an expression bordering on pain. "I have never found forging unions with people useful for negotiation - familial or otherwise. It's been wiser to seek my own company."

     "So you say. What prickles at my subconscious, Mycroft...is the notion that you're still completely self-sufficient. You've built a wall around your heart, and even though you've shared so very much...I sense that you still feel alone. Live alone, are alone as we lay in this bed." Alicia swallowed hard, the tendons of her neck showing.

     Mycroft gazed up at the wall, beautiful blue eyes exposing the mysterious depths of his person. Alicia startled as she beheld a hint of moisture in the corners of each eye. Her words were too harsh.

    "Mycroft! Dear heart, I am sorry, I have no interest in upsetting you. I can stop."

     "I - ." His eyes closed, lids reddening. "I'm both sorry and afraid, Alicia. "I'm...you are correct in one regard. I _have_ built a wall for around my heart - very poetic, by the way - in order to salvage my sanity. I am..." He sniffled. "Oh, dear. However do I explain my need to hold back, and how I've been able?Alicia, I have a secret, and it's not a good one. If I spoke of it, you might not hold such a lofty opinion of your fiance. But, if I speak of it, you will understand what I am."

    "I...no. What? I disagree. What do you mean what you are? Mycroft, I see past what you are and have witnessed _who_  you are. I love all of you, warts and all."

    Mycroft fumbled for her hand. "Please," she went on, clinging tight, "may we always be honest with each other? Closely held secrets are seldom pleasant, love, but keeping your own counsel leads to more pain in the end. Trust me," Alicia winced. "I have experience in such matters."

    _Magnussen._  

   Mycroft drew Alicia's hand to his lips and held it close to inhale her sweet scent. He planted a soft kiss on the knuckles, and then touched her hand to his cheek. "Give me a moment to collect my thoughts. Please," he pleaded. "My love, you have every right to know about all of my...oddities before we are wed." He shut his eyes tight.

    Alicia nodded, distressed. Mycroft never pleaded. He commanded. "Of course, Mycroft. Whatever you need."

     Mycroft opened his eyes.

 

 


	83. Sensory Overload - in a Good Way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gratuitous smut, with a dash of plot. Well, not really much plot. In fact, there is absolutely zero plot in this chapter. So sue me.  
> I blame this bit of perversion on the influence of more talented writers...you know who you are.
> 
> "Hell, yeah. To the max...hell, yeah!"**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Your lips are like wine, and I want to get drunk." - William Shakespeare
> 
> “Graze on my lips, and if those hills be dry  
> Stray lower, where the pleasant fountains lie.” – Venus And Adonis, William Shakespeare

     "Whoo-hoo..." Emma Hudson chimed as she sashayed into the flat. Her heels clicked to a stop as she spied her two boys by the fire. Sherlock and John radiated sheer exhaustion, hunkering down over chipped teacups. The woman's cheery smile twisted into a deep frown of apprehension, and not only because of the condition of her china.

     Giving John and Sherlock a hasty once-over, the frown expanded into a grimace. "John, dear," Emma lamented, "you look quite knackered. Sherlock, is he ill?"

     Sherlock lifted his gaze from his teacup, blood-shot eyes peeking out under his eyelashes. "Good morning, Mrs. Hudson. No, John is not ill."

     "My heavens, you look right peaky as well! Sherlock. Has something happened that I don't know about?"

      John picked at the lint on his jumper. "No worries, Mrs. H. Mycroft stopped by for a visit. You know how he sucks the life out of people. We're just in recovery mode."

      Emma huffed out a breath. "I don't know what is wrong with that man. He's a menace, Sherlock, if you'll excuse me for saying so."

     Sherlock snickered. "You're excused."

     John smiled wanly, indeed feeling like he'd been run over by a lorry. "Mycroft is not to blame for once, Mrs. Hudson." He paused to sip at his tea, winkling his nose at the tannins. "Sherlock and I were privy to a bit of bad news, is all. In this case, Mycroft only played messenger, not instigator."

    "I wouldn't say that, John," Sherlock snarled. "If I'd known the specific bit of bad news Mycroft felt it so necessary to share, I'd have slammed the door in his face."

    "Oh, my dear..." she tutted. "I wish you had, Sherlock. Just look at you, John. All pasty...and are you losing weight?" Emma stepped closer, patting his pale, drawn face.

    "I'll make a proper fryup for you boys and then Rosie and I are off to the park for a walk. I'll phone Mrs. Turner. I need to catch up on my gossip!"

    If on cue, John heard his daughter hollering from her room. "Bless you, Mrs. Hudson, as ever, you are a wonder," John grinned.

     "Nonsense, John. I simply do what needs doing, like any sensible woman," she demurred, obviously pleased. "Now, off with you whilst I start the bacon.

     And this is how Sherlock and John ended up snogging in a steaming hot shower, meticulously soaping certain "vital" bits clean.

     

      ********

     John brought his military bearing into bear as he bullied Sherlock back into bed. He'd all but thrown a still-dripping Sherlock atop the rumpled duvet as his Royal Highness searched the corner wardrobe for a shirt.

     "John!" Sherlock squeaked along with the bed springs, clutching at his towel like a vestal virgin. Really!"

     "Easy, my love," the doctor clucked. "Before we leave our bedroom, we have Work to do here...in fact, we need to conduct vital research right _here."_ John patted the bed, eyebrows waggling.

     Sherlock's eyes darkened with interest, curling over on his side, top leg bent at the knee. He plastered on a smarmy 'come-hither' look, fully aware of that by lying in this position his tightening balls peeked out from under the cheeks of his arse. "Oh, do go on, _Dr_. _Watson._ Please enlighten me."

     "As men of science, it is in our best interests to pursue additional research of the current situation affecting 221B. I am, naturally, referencing our recently formulated philosophy of 'No More Secrets'. Last night's purely psychological ordeal - ."

      "In no way allowed us to study the complete set of variables involved," Sherlock butted in. "Therefore, to bring our new doctrine into fruition, a precise and comprehensive examination of any specific, and/or extraneous physical expectations are required," Sherlock nodded emphatically. "I unequivicably approve of your assertion." He placed a emphatic hand to his chest. "As a man who's devoted his entire life to the study of logic and science - ."

    "And human nature, don't forget that, particularly the deviant side." John burst out, leaping sideways dolphin-style next to Sherlock.

    "Crimes of passion," Sherlock purred, stretching the full length of his body across the bed on his back. He jiggled his hips, cock half-way to stiff filled with blood. It bounced, pleased by the attention and turned a dark pink. John licked his lips.

     "And our focus shall remain on all things _British."_ John stated. His expression sobered.

    "Yes! And therefore, no examination of any foreign languages or alternate countries of origin shall be done. After all," he caressed his lover's lower abdomen, "we English have been so very, very naughty. There's plenty enough to go on as it is." If the line of conversation no longer made sense, neither man noticed - or cared.

     At this, John dove his nose into Sherlock's groin, snuffling at the natural, spicy scent of his balls. Sherlock groaned raggedy. "Oh, John...God, yes. Let our examination begin."

     The detective's long body writhed under John's warm tongue. The doctor lapped over and around Sherlock's sac, paying extra attention to the creases between his pelvis and thigh. Sherlock was ticklish...and John found this so incredibly hot. His own thick cock sprang to life. He felt it throbbing and sighed with pleasure.

     "Jesus, John!" Sherlock whined. "Oh, don't stop, please don't stop!" He pumped his pelvis erratically as his lover sought out every deliciously sensitive sweet spot. A cross between a moan and a giggle forced it's way out of Sherlock's mouth. "Hnng! Ohh..oh, God. Oh, God. Oh my Goooood...more!" His hands yanked at the sheets as he fought to stay still.

     John spared a moment to flash a smile up at Sherlock. "I'm not half-way done with you, you gorgeous specimen of a man. So many, many variables to study," John pressed his sturdy hands over Sherlock's hips and forced them to remain flat on the mattress. Flattening his tongue, the doctor bathed his lover's balls in warm spit.

     Suddenly, it wasn't enough. John reached an arm under both of Sherlock's thighs and thrust them upward over the man's chest. The doctor let out an animalistic groan deep in his throat. "God, Sherlock, I'm going to take you apart. I'm going to fuck your hole with my tongue. But first, I need to hear you beg for it, love. Beg me to lick you. Beg me to fuck you. I want you to say it again and again."

     Practically shouting, Sherlock stretched long arms around his bent legs and grasped at John's biceps. He held on for dear life, bracing his legs on taut forearms. "Yes, please! I need you, I _need_ it. Put your tongue on me, stick it in deep as you can!"

    John paused teasingly, delicately circling Sherlock's puckered, pink muscle with a finger. He tickled Sherlock's thighs again, prompting loud squeals. "Hmmm? I didn't quite catch that. Say it again."

     Sherlock fought his need to giggle, croaking "Joooohhhnn... please!" He panted, beads of sweat trickling down his temples. "Oh, I want it, I'll do anything!" Using the muscles of his abdomen, Sherlock curled up to stare wildly into John's eyes. 

    An evil chuckle spilled from John's lips. "You may live to regret that statement, my dear. Oh, my...what's going to happen to you..." The diminutive man yanked Sherlock's legs down and flipped the man onto his belly. "Up!" He ordered, smacking Sherlock's arse. One, two, three sharp smacks were delivered in rapid succession before Sherlock aligned his knees under his thighs to angle his hind end upward. 

     John roughly grabbed Sherlock's hips to re-position his lengthy body into a sloppy right triangle. Arse up, back arched almost painfully downward, chest shoved into sheets. The detective turned his head to his side, moaning so raucously and with such desperation that John felt thankful that Mrs. Turner was out with the girls.

     "John...please..."

     With one more smart smack for luck, John dove into Sherlock's backside with something approaching sheer madness. "Shit, Sherlock, you taste so good," John crooned, tongue frantically flicking over Sherlock's anus. "I love this...I love you, I love making you come..."

    An unending litany of swear words and high-pitched pleas to the Almighty (whom he considered to be John at this point, as Sherlock was an atheist) sprung from the detective's plush lips. Whatever sense of decorum he'd clung to up to this point was abandoned, and he thrust his arse back into John's hot tongue with delicious debauchery.

     As Sherlock's pleasure welled up in his cock and the pressure built up in his balls, he moaned "John! I...you need to...I am going to...want your cock - want your cock, I need you to fuck me!"

     "Unnngh, Sherlock...yes...God, yes..." John removed his face from Sherlock's nether regions and helped Sherlock sit up.

     Sherlock used the opportunity to pounce, and laid John flat on the duvet. "Oomph!" John puffed out, losing all of the air from his lungs. "Sherlock, what the - ooohhhh, Jesus _fuck,_ Sherlock!"

     The detective had latched on to John's penis, swiftly sucking it into his mouth until his nose pressed into John's stomach. Sherlock reveled in the whining and thrashing, wanting only to drive John as mad as he'd been driven. "Mmmm," Sherlock, hummed, knowing how the vibrations drove his lover wild.

     John's exhortations grew frantic whilst his body squirmed uncontrollably. Sherlock stuck a thumb into each of John's hips and began to wiggle them. John enjoyed a good tickling, as well.

     John giggled hysterically, twisting his torso in an attempt to evade Sherlock's fingers. Immediately, Sherlock swung a leg over John's chest with his back to John's face, forcing him back into position.

     John huffed and puffed between groaning bouts of laughter. He alternated between smooth strokes and playful whacks at Sherlock's back, stuck between wanting Sherlock to stop...or tickle him harder.

     The doctor's cock flushed bright red, and Sherlock could sense it heating up in preparation for an orgasm. He gave it one last powerful suck and freed John from his confining legs. "That's what you get, for teasing me, you miscreant!" 

     John's face crinkled in amusement. He spared no energy on replying. Instead, he crawled over to the bedside table and fumbled open the drawer. "Lube! Where's the lube?" John groped uselessly in each corner, a look of dawning horror on his face.

     Sherlock shoved a hand under his pillow and pulled it out with a smirk. "Relax, John! Right where we left it. Now, put it on and get in me this instant!"

     John giggled, squishing the clear slick onto his fingers and cock. He did a perfunctory job of preparing Sherlock for penetration, as the man's obvious pleasure of having his prostate stimulated was just too much for John to cope with.

     The doctor manhandled Sherlock's legs up for a repeat performance of their ever popular "arse in the air" position. John shoved one of the feather pillows under Sherlock's hips and plunged into him without any warning. They keened in unison, eyes squeezed shut.

     What happened next was a lunatic wrestling match of pumping pelvises and twisting figures. Sherlock reached up to snog John senseless, breaching John's mouth to tangle tongues. They breathed in each other's hot air. Lips kissed necks and sucked tongues and nibbled collar bones and straining bellies rubbed sweaty and soft until they slipped over each other like eels.

     It was glorious. It was necessary. And if a certain landlady crossed the foyer and heard the commotion, promptly performed an abrupt about-face that would make the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers proud, and shooed a certain toddler and accompanying busybody back out on to the pavement, no one upstairs was the wiser. 

     Emma surreptitiously smiled, Rosie joyously scored a second ice cream cone, and Mrs Turner, couldn't wait until next bridge game that Friday.

    All in all, it was a good day.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was fun. It got away from me...so...yeah. Thoughts? Was it too much?
> 
> **Can anyone tell me what book I pulled this quote from?


	84. Doppelgangers Trump Goldfish, Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How many Crofts can a Mycroft craft?**

     He'd spoken with premiers and presidents, prime ministers and potentates, despots and democracies, magistrates and head-of-state, consulates and overlords, capitalists and communists, and etcetera...etcetera, ad nauseum...etcetera. 

       _Dear me! My sincerest apologies, Madam. One mustn't forget HRH._

      Easy peasy compared to conversing with one naked woman in bed.

      A wall. Damn right he'd constructed a wall -  in fact, a tower. A fucking Rapunzel, he was, albeit with thinning hair and a perpetual paunch. 

       _Rapunzel, Rapunzel...let down your hair. I have my dear...down to my bathroom floor._

In what universe would his childhood coping strategy be acceptable? Not this one, certainly. Mycroft's necessary and effective use of his intellect was in this case, bizarre. He shuddered, imagining the expression on Alicia's face upon hearing the specifics.

     _Time to be brave, Mycroft. Open up._

    "You must understand, dear heart. I was alone in a house full of family. And the children at school were _so_ far beneath me... intellectually speaking." Mycroft winced at the percrivable arrogance of his words. "Pardon. I do come off as a boor."

    "No. You come off as blunt and forthright, but that's part of why I love you. Please continue," Alicia soothed, stroking his thigh.

    "Excuse me for reiterating that my parents were otherwise occupied. And," he reddened, "frankly unable to satisfy my little brother's needs. Either I stepped in, or no one did. I felt compelled."

    "You love him."

    "Quite so... unfortunately." He pinched the bridge of his nose, visibly pained. "It has been quite an ordeal, keeping tabs on my brother," Mycroft sighed windily. He lowered his hand, smiling weakly.

    "And? Now that we've both agreed on the fact that Sherlock is a handful," she grinned to soften her words, "back to the original subject."

     Mycroft squeezed shut his eyes once again, avoiding the question. _Now or never, you pompous windbag._  

    "Goldfish."

    "Pardon?" Alicia snorted, bemused. "Mycroft! Open you eyes and look at me." Eyes narrowing as he sat frozen and flushed, she snapped her fingers next to his face.

    Startled, he flinched and instinctively reared back. 

    "Goldfish? I don't understand."

     "The term 'goldfish' comes from Sherlock upon entering nursery school. Goldfish was the label he foisted on people other than he and I, naturally. Even as a five-year-old, he viewed them as mindless and bland, and stupid. Goldfish swim in a school, you see. They prefer to chase each other's tails rather than think for themselves," Mycroft voice cracked.

    Appalled, Mycroft cleared his throat and plowed onward. "In addition, goldfish are generally indistinguishable from one another, save for a few insignificant variations in color. They are dull. They are common." He dropped his head to his chin. "You must see...we've found this construct so much more tolerable than any alternative view."

    "Which is?" Alicia prodded.

    "That Sherlock and I are misfits and freaks."

Alicia popped up to her knees and clasped her lover's shoulders. "Mycroft! You know this isn't true. The very idea of you two as a children - ."

    "Awkward, yes? I thought him very amusing and clever at the time...an apt observation from an genius mind."

     Silence reigned in the bedroom for several minutes as Alicia mulled over his words. Lips pursed, she broke it by asking, "So this is your horrible secret? That people are goldfish? I don't understand. It's somewhat offensive, but hardly something to hide...unless you view _me_ as a goldfish as well."

     "No. No, Alicia, NO. Absolutely not, and neither does Sherlock," Mycroft burst out. "Please bear with me a little bit longer, yes? The 'secret' is how I reacted. How I chose to cope as a result," he mumbled.

     "Mycroft. Please don't tell me that you became a child serial killer. This would definitelyput a wedge between us," Alicia smirked.

   "Don't be obtuse!" Mycroft's eyes flared wide in panic at his words. "Oh, my dear! Please forgive me, I...how very rude. I - ."

     "Have heard Sherlock say this repeatedly to your face," Alicia interrupted. "I do understand how colloquialisms are spread. No apologies necessary, unless you do it again," she scowled, only half-joking. "So? Goldfish. I'll bite, pun intended."

     "I was  _alone,_ Alicia. I had to rely on my on wits, with the exception of my Uncle Rudy. However, his focus generally revolved around matching lipstick to his dress."

    Alicia giggled in delight. "How naughty. Please tell me we'll revisit that topic in the future!"

    Mycroft smiled ruefully. "But of course. And imagine, Uncle Rudolph wasn't considered the black sheep in our family!" He rubbed his nose.

    Alicia began to wonder if the nose-rubbing was Mycroft's tell for distress. The gesture bore closer examination.

    "I needed a companion, someone I could trust and confide in, and hehhh _..._ hehhh... ehhhh... _ehhm."_

_"Alicia."_

    _"Mycroft."_

    "Are you familiar at all with a memory technique whereby information is stored as a construct?" He asked.

    "Mmm...nope, can't say that I have. Please enlighten me."

   "It's a technique whereby a person visualizes a physical space in his mind. Mine is the Royal Library of Alexandria. Sherlock constructed a palace. He's designed four separate wings!" Mycroft sniffed.

    "I would expect nothing less," Alicia mused. "So, let me see if I have this straight. You use your imagination to visualize a 'place' so realistic that - what. What then?"

    "I use my library as discrete from myself. Separate from my body. Concrete. Physical. Tangible."

    "A space that you can walk in and touch?" Alicia's head cocked, intrigued.

     "Precisely! By visualizing this construct, an individual may then travel through and store specific information in shelves, in boxes, in the palace ballroom as needed. As a result, all one has to do to retrieve the data is to navigate back to that place."

    "Hmmm," she nodded. "Very clever! I may try it myself. Alicia's eyes darted whilst she pondered. "And now I'm still ask, Mycroft, what have you stored in your library?"

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I hope to pen a more comprehensive explanation about Mycroft's very unusual coping strategies as soon as I complete this monstrosity. I plan on using the words of the summary as my title.
> 
> On a side note, I feel like I am being rather wordy. I remind myself of Tolkien (NOT talent-wise) in his rendering of the book The Silmarillion, whereby the descriptions were so extensive that it took a character 15 pages to lift a sword.


	85. How Many Crofts Can a Mycroft Craft?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finally spits it out. Oh....the angst. Mycroft has earned a meltdown, has he not? His parents turned in complete shits in TFP.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special, too." - Ernest Hemmingway
> 
> "Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "Make not your thoughts your prisons." - William Shakespeare

   Alicia waited.

   Mycroft gulped. He inhaled. He squeezed his fists tight.

 _"IdesignedandbuiltanatriumiminthecenterofmymentallibraryinwhichIspawedcarboncopiesofmyselandforsimplicity'ssakerefertothesefabricationsasdoppel_  - "

   "Mycroft!" Alicia begged, exasperated. "For heaven's sake! Slow down, love, I can't understand a single word that you've said."

    He heaved, hyperventilating. Alicia grabbed his hands and cupped them over his nose and mouth. "Slow breaths. Easy now... that's it. Eeeaaasy..." She caressed his face and fought to stay calm. Never, ever before had she seen the man lose his composure.

   Mycroft's eyes watered whilst he followed Alicia's instructions.  _Slow breaths. Slow breaths. Oh God. Slow breaths..._  

    If never, ever before had Alicia seen Mycroft break, never, ever had Mycroft sacrificed the sanctity of his person in front of a witness. Ever. Never. Except, when he was a child. Except, when he was with Sherlock. Even thus, Mycroft maintained tight parameters over disclosure. The reality was that Sherlock, despite being the only being on Earth with which Mycroft felt normal, remained seven years his junior.

     Inasmuch, Sherlock must never suspect the inescapable trauma Mycroft endured whilst treading in Sherlock's wide wake. This trust, a hellish legacy bequeathed by floundering parents, had been Mycroft's to accept or deny. Recognizing himself as the only existent fit family member, the correct choice morphed into the only choice. As a dutiful child, Mycroft upheld his commitments - regardless of the personal cost.

     And yet. Here Mycroft sagged, white-faced and shaking, swaddled in the arms of his first love. He'd never exposed himself...his visceral _true_ self, in the presence of another human being until now. Shivering, frozen in fear, he was Alicia's to save or to shatter. He had placed himself into her hands.

    _Oh, I want. Yes, I want, please I want._ He ached to be saved and sanctioned. He yearned to be loved as John Watson loved 'Lock. Mycroft was very afraid.

    Tears streamed unbidden down Alicia's taut cheeks. "Mycroft, my love," the Lady whispered. "Hush, my love, hush." She threaded her fingers into his hair and smoothed it down over his scalp. "Whatever it is that you have to tell me is fine. I'm here for you." Cradling the most powerful man in the UK, Alicia accepted Mycroft's heart and held it fast. As a creature of faith, Lady Smallwood upheld her commitments - regardless of the personal cost.

     An indeterminate period of time passed, the sky blushing pink. Mycroft carefully tugged Alicia's hands off his body and rose up. "I am so sorry," he snuffled. "That was completely uncalled for."

    "Nonsense. Mycroft, I mean what I say. I'm not going anywhere. You're quite stuck with me, I'm afraid. I'm besotted, remember?" She gently remonstrated, tweaking his chin. "However, I desperately need the loo and a cold glass of water, so I do need to leave this bedroom. I shall return in five minutes, and then we will go back to the beginning and start over, yes?"

   *******

    And so it was. Alicia returned as promised, carefully holding her glass. Mycroft snagged it at once, sucking down the icy water so desperately that the majority dribbled down on his lap.

     Apparently unawares, however, Mycroft launched into a sloppy soliloquy. His eyes rolled as he spoke, hands clenched into fists. He seemed unable to look at her face. On the other side of the spectrum, Alicia sat wide eyed and electric. She remained fixated on Mycroft, and resembled nothing so much as a little girl listening to a bedtime story.  

    The facts were this: Mycroft had been hung out to dry by society. He desperately needed a sounding board; a friend or adult who he could bounce ideas off of and provide Mycroft with necessary emotional support. 

    The facts were this: No such person existed who had the capacity (or desire) to do this. Mycroft was hung out to dry. 

    The facts were this: Mycroft's vast intellectual skills could provide a temporary solution to quell psychological stress, if he so desired. He so desired.

    Upon the completion of his Alexandrian library, the boy took a day to mull things over. Life, as it was, looked bleak. The Royal Library, however, glittered in all its hyper-realistic, Hellenistic glory. Mycroft brooded within its walls, gloriously whiling away hours otherwise wasted in school.

    The facts were this: Mycroft had to rely on himself. 

    The solution: Furnish the library with more than just books. Fabricate duplicates of himself; doppelgangers with whom which he could use as sounding boards and a source of support. Young Mycroft began by building outwards and in. He stood in the center of his atrium, waving his arms like a conductor, He felt somewhat like a god.

    In order to mold each doppelganger for maximum proficiency, Mycroft imbued them with a particular set of data. Each verbal boy replicate functioned as encyclopedia, confidante, and friend; to be tapped when the need arose.

    Mycroft was perversely pleased with his experiment, especially whilst tucking them away in the Sarapeum*. It seemed appropriate, did it not?

    Giggling, Mycroft labelled these mental fabrications "Dopplecrofts". They served his needs phenomenally well, changed and modified as he grew. And yet. Complications set in, as they often do.

    By the time Mycroft reached the tender age of thirteen, he'd foregone any effort to connect with actual people. Instead, he reached for his doppelcrofts to fill all needs. The action was easily justified, thanks to young Sherlock. The world was populated by goldfish, after all. As the lone shark in the tank, Mycroft deemed it the logical choice.

    Mycroft's coping strategy continued into adulthood. He designated doppelcrofts to help handle Sherlock, and Euros, and his parents...and more. He used them before speaking to the prime minister and foreign heads of state. One set even functioned as a personal House of Lords. 

    And now, to his horror, he'd designed one to manage Alicia. Mycroft felt ashamed of himself for the very first time. Surely, this crossed the borders of propriety? Surely, he should be dependent upon his fiance?

    His face shone as red as his hair.

   

 

    

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *a small addition to the larger library which was built to store duplicates of original texts for safe-keeping.


	86. Mr. Mycroft, Tear Down That Wall!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alicia puts her two pence in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Honesty is the highest form of intimacy" - Quoteszilla
> 
> "No legacy is as rich as honesty." - William Shakespeare
> 
> "I was born with a soul that is way too sensitive for this cold and ugly world, I have always felt things deeply and differently than most people. That has always been my blessing and my curse." - Reggie Nulan

     The bedroom rang loud with their unspoken words. Mycroft huddled inward as if bracing for a blow. Alicia rubbed at her temples, perhaps in the hopes of organizing her thoughts. Belatedly, she smiled wanly, and tipped up his chin. Her lover's eyes shone blue, ringed in a nimbus of red. "And here I thought you were on drugs," she lovingly mocked, jiggling his head by the chin.

    Mycroft choked out a laugh. "No, that's Sherlock's department." He clasped her hand and drew it up to his lips. It was trembling slightly. "You must be...I can't even imagine what...my dear." Mycroft brushed her hand across his lips. "I am sorry. I've mislead you all this time as to what kind of man I really am."

    Alicia gently tugged her hand out of his grasp. She reached up and cupped his left cheek. "No, Mycroft. I don't believe that's quite true."

    "I won't put up a fuss if you've changed your mind; I wouldn't blame you in the slightest. I'm so odd, and - "

    "My dear! Who said any such thing. Don't be such a drama queen!" she snorted.

    "Excuse me? Drama...what? I don't understand. Aren't you repulsed by my outlandish activities?" Mycroft squeaked, nonplussed. He'd anticipated derision and disgust, and he goggled in wide-eyed awe whilst she placidly re-tied her topknot. "I thought...I thought..."

    "You thought what? Mycroft. I  _am_ disappointed by the lack of faith you hold in me. I have worked with you for the last fifteen years. I already knew you were odd," Alicia kidded gently, leaning her shoulder against his. 

   Mycroft reached out for her delicate hand and and held it in wonder. "My deepest apologies, dear. You know I hold you in the highest esteem, I just believe that my...coping strategy should be considered repugnant, and quite possibly, certifiable. Of course, it's natural for a child to skirt convention. But, I never let it go - I never stopped. Honestly, who would choose such a life but a lunatic?"

    "You have me there, Mycroft. I don't know." Alicia reached her other hand out and placed it over their combined grasp. "But I know you. You've been very generous in sharing yourself...especially considering what you've _just_ shared - and you know I've experienced your brother's antics. Honestly, my dear, Sherlock's behavior is _far_ more outlandish than yours." Mycroft huffed in amusement.

   "True enough."

   "Perhaps, you kept the system because it was so effective? It became habit, and habits - particularly those which stem from childhood, are very hard to break," she mused.

   "I suppose," he murmured, still shy.

    The lovers sat in silence. Eventually, Alicia reached and tugged Mycroft down to the pillows. They snuggled quietly as she stroked his chest. Mycroft felt both intensely ashamed and intensely relieved. It was out.

   "The only pertinent question I have for you now is," Alicia whispered, "did you make one for me?"

   Mycroft choked, mind whiting out in panic. He jerked away, the desire to flee and never come back far too strong to ignore.

   Small but determined, Alicia grabbed at his arm and held him firm. "Oh, no you don't! Don't you dare run from me, Mycroft Holmes. Now lay back down and act like the man that I know you are."

    He stared at her, still positioned to flee. "I..."

    "Now!" she snapped.

     Mycroft edged back over, submissive as a chastised child. "I...I'm afraid. I don't - I can't imagine what you are thinking. Alicia," he stammered. "I'm not the man that you think I am. I'm damaged, and I simply can't bear any more."

     Now Alicia's face blazed with fury. "Bullshit! That's a load of shite. Don't you know that I love you? I'm still here, aren't I? I haven't left, and I'm not leaving. I'm here for you. It's alright. It's okay." Her expression softened.

     "I'm not the 'Iceman'," he sighed. "I'm pathetic."

     "You will be if you don't stop whingeing! Now spill it."

      Head averted, Mycroft mumbled "Yes. Yes I do. I had to, you see. I never, I've never had anyone see me and still stay. I needed someone to bounce ideas off of and hold my sentiments in case you said no. If you had, I'd have deleted him. Feelings gone, *poof*," he threw up his hands. "That's how I do it. That's what I am."

     "That lack of faith again! Our marriage is never going to work if you don't learn to trust me." She delivered the rebuke gently but with an underlying edge of steel. "So spill. Please. For me, if you love me."

     Mycroft closed his eyes.

  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Too dramatic? I don't know. Although I prefer to ignore TFP as if it never aired, EVER, I liked that they exposed Mycroft's humanity. We all knew it was there, didn't we? I had to run with it.
> 
> Sorry this was so short. I have to stew my tomatoes from the garden before work.


	87. Mycroft Spills into His Lover's Open Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Am I high, or did I post a chapter 87 already and it disappeared? Sodding ADHD be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Fall now."  
> \- Molly Hooper
> 
> "Could be dangerous." - Sherlock Holmes
> 
> "Mycroft is the name that you gave me." Mycroft Holmes

     So Mycroft spilled. Alicia listened. In the end, he survived. In the end, she accepted. As a point of fact, his lovely fiance found the profoundly detailed index of her charms quite endearing; the memories of her sexual kinks quite something else. Alicia prodded Mycroft to list these in full, slyly insisting that if he had taken the time to record each and every one, that she was entitled to peruse them. In point of fact, these memories were both of theirs to share. Perhaps it was time to review?

    "But my dear, I don't have any spirits in the house," he protested.

    "Then buy them, dear Mycroft...lovely Mycroft..." Alicia licked one pink nipple. " _D_ _ear Mycroft..._ I'm not going anywhere." Reaching over, she rolled his other nipple until it peaked.

     Mycroft moaned with pleasure. "You better not, dear heart. I might have to skip directly to number twelve and give you a spanking." He pulled her close to mouth her own pretty, pink buds.

     "Is that a threat, or a promise?"

     "Both! Not stop this at once, or I shan't be fit to be seen in public," he groaned, indicating his red, swelling cock.

      "Let me help. Should I go right to number four?" Alicia, all of 7.5 stone soaking wet, shoved Mycroft so hard he fell back with an "oooph!" She latched onto to his cock like a viper, and Mycroft pushed back into the mattress and keened.

      "My sweet Alicia...you're so very practical...I can see why you chose civil service... _Oh, Gaaaawad...."_

       

     


	88. Mollycoddles/Mollywaddles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time flies when you're having fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Better three hours two soon than a minute too late." - William Shakespeare

Fourteen months, sixteen day, and twelve seconds after the death of Mary

     Molly picked up the scalpel, mentally tracing the path of the cut. Frederick Davis. Forty-nine years, seven months. Cause of death unknown. Foul play suspected by Dimmock. First autopsy scheduled for the day. Routine, typical, boring. So why did she feel like this?

    "This" was a misnomer. The sensations coursing through her body puzzled the pathologist; puzzled, or rather, disturbed. She ran down the list of symptoms. Queasy, lethargic, irritable yet incredibly randy. She'd had to implement severe measures to squeeze her overlarge breasts into her bras this last week. And yet, Molly knew that she'd maintained the same weight (this fact firmly established by the surreptitious use of the autopsy scale).

      _Oh shit. Oh-shit-oh-shit-oh-shit._

     Was it even possible? Molly rapidly calculated the days since her last menstruation with the aid of her phone calendar.  _Forty-nine days. Forty-nine days. Forty. Nine. Days._

In the name of God, how had she not noticed? Her menses came like clockwork every twenty-nine days. Now, roughly three weeks late - she had to take a test. Now. Right now. And maybe four or five, pregnancy tests weren't 100% accurate. A radiant smile flashed over her face. Apparently, neither were rubbers.

    Carefully placing the scalpel back on the tray, the pathologist wheeled poor old Fred back to back to his refrigerated unit. He could wait; She could not.

    ****************

    Yupperdoodles! She had a bun in the oven. They might have to move up the date, she thought, tilting her left hand so that Greg's diamond engagement ring sparkled in the sun. Thank God she hadn't already posted the wedding invitations. _I'm so fucking excited I think I'm going to puke._ As if on cue, Molly's stomach rolled, and she did a hasty turn-about to lean over the toilet.  _Ick._ Hell, so what.  _Greg is going to be sooo chuffed!_  


	89. Two Weddings And a Funeral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just having you on, no-one dies.
> 
> Alicia and Mycroft get married.
> 
> Greg and Molly tie the knot
> 
> Rosie is a menace at weddings.
> 
> It's all good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be as patient as a gentle stream,  
> And make a pastime of each weary step,  
> Till the last step have brought me to my love,  
> And there I’ll rest as, after much turmoil  
> A blessed soul doth in Elysium.  
> (The Two Gentlemen of Verona, Act 2 Scene 7) - William Shakespeare, in reference to Mycroft
> 
> "I would not wish  
> Any companion in the world but you:  
> Nor can imagination form a shape  
> Besides yourself to like of."  
> (The Tempest, Act 3 Scene 1) - William Shakespeare, in reference to the Lestrades
> 
> "He is the half part of a blessed man,  
> Left to be finished by such as she:  
> And she a fair divided excellence,  
> Whose fullness of perfection lies in him."  
> (King John, Act 2 Scene 1) - William Shakespeare, in reference to both couples
> 
> "Those that do teach young babes  
> Do it with with gentle means and easy tasks" - William Shakespeare, in reference to John and Sherlock

Twenty months, eighteen days after the death of Mary

     Lady Alicia Smallwood accepted the hand of Mr. Mycroft Holmes on a moist, murky Saturday evening. Tastefully bedecked in a champagne pink fitted suit (always a suit), Alicia beamed radiantly as she strode up the aisle. Mycroft beamed back, and John thought that he had never seen such a beautiful smile as the one he beheld on the groom's face.

    Bracketed on both sides of the bride stood John Watson and her soon-to-be brother-in-law; a set of beefcake bookends. Between the two men, Alicia posed, refined as a porcelain doll.

    Rosie flounced at the head of the procession, encouraging the bounce of her skirt. She paused half-way to the alter and frowned down at the basket of rose petals. This parsing of petals seemed utterly illogical and rather a waste of her time.

   Grinning, Rosie tipped over her basket. A fragrant mound of red now graced the white linen runner. John and Sherlock gaped in horrified silence whilst their daughter skipped up the aisle. Ever the diplomat, Alicia steered her companions around the pile and proceeded as if nothing had happened.

    Three glasses of champagne later, John placed the blame on his partner. It wasn't  _he_ whom had stressed the merits of logic.

     ***********

     Two months later, Rosie skipped up to another church alter sans basket. This bride-to-be's white dress also shadowed her beautiful curves; Molly was due in six weeks. Here, one tow-headed toddler had the temerity to blow out the flaming unity candle - much to no-one amusement.

    Three glasses of ale later, Greg suggested that when Sherlock and John tied the knot, Rosie should sit in the car. 

 


	90. Epilogue: You're Kidding, Right?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OMG. I think that the boys have finally got it goin' on. Just a few more things to wrap up the whole shebang with Rosie and baby Jonathon William Scott Lestrade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Life is full of whimsical happenings." - Watson, ACD

   Twenty-nine months, fourteen days after the death of Mary.

    After Molly gives birth, people get busy. The Lestrades find a small two-bedroom house and move in. Their home required "a little bit" of maintenance before moving in. John re-did the kitchen lino. Sherlock fixed the electric wiring so that the house remained standing. Molly painted the nursery blue. They all hid the hammers when Greg came around 

     Johnathon William Scott Lestrade was a corker. His chocolate-brown eyes filled up most of his face. The infant took after Molly in most other ways, being fine-boned and slender. Mrs. Hudson slipped far more bits of chocolate digestive than could possibly be good for a baby.

    Rosie, honorary cousin, spent much of her time singing to Johnny. Not all of the songs were in English, but nobody minded.

    Sherlock proposed to John at Angelo's. The owner brought over ten candles to "set the mood". John forbid Sherlock from complaining about possible fire hazards, as Sherlock was the most dangerous thing in the restaurant. As usual, dinner was on the house.

    John said yes, Rosie sat with her cousin, and the ceremony wasn't a wash. No one was stabbed. No one jumped off a building. Lestrade managed to get through the best man's speech in one piece. It was more than a bit good.

     Life has been very, very good ever since. Everyone agrees. Well, every now and then there is a garrotting, but nothing's going to be perfect.

     As they are fully aware, it is what it is.

   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. That was tedious. (Not really). I enjoyed every bit, and thank all of you for your kind comments and words of support.
> 
> On to other adventures. Ta!


End file.
